Mere Words
by Merqurius
Summary: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong and he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 1

_What if you knew that this day, this very day, would be the last one on which you had a voice? The last day on which you were able to control your words, have them flow from your mouth and be completely in command of language? _

_What would you say?_

_Would you say goodbye to your friends and family? Tell them all the things you normally never had the courage or the eloquence for? Or would you keep your final sayings to yourself, cherishing the feeling of words, mere words, rolling from your tongue?_

_What would you choose?_

Castiel stared at his hands. _Dean, it is not broken_. That was the last thing he'd said to his friend, but in the hours that had passed, doubt had crept into his mind and set up camp there. Castiel was not unfamiliar with doubt. It had been the first emotion he'd ever consciously experienced. It had led the way to rebellion, to humanity, to exile and to friendship. He owed much to doubt.

Doubt and Dean had always walked hand-in-hand together. Dean had initiated and cultivated doubt within Castiel. Perhaps because he was so connected with it himself. Dean doubted his own strength, his own worthiness and even his salvation from hell. Ironically, the only thing Dean had never doubted, until recently, was Castiel himself.

It was quite possible that that realization was what changed his mind. It happened rather suddenly. After hours of hesitation, switching sides and calling to the heavens for consultation, the truth was oddly clear. It was broken. But he could fix it.

The plan itself was remarkably easy to construe. Castiel was good at strategizing and it pleased him to visit the familiar paths of ideas and consequences, without regarding emotions and all they entailed.

The ritual that could prove to be his saviour and to which his mind now wandered, was ancient. It hadn't been performed since biblical times. He had not given it much thought until this very moment, because his actions these last months had been motivated by selfishness, while this plan required the exact opposite. The power of a sacrifice had always been important in religion. Abraham had been tested by his God when challenged to slaughter his only child upon an altar. God had sent his son down to earth to die for the sins of men. The power of a willing sacrifice was immense and could be harnessed to destroy darkness. It was what Castiel needed.

Calling Raphael down to an empty warehouse would not be difficult. A simple summoning would do the trick. Raphael would not come alone, of course, but Castiel was not intending to overpower him. Instead, he would allow himself to be captured and surrendered onto Raphael's mercy. The ritual, performed prior to the archangel's arrival, would ensure that Castiel's destruction would not be in vain. Raphael would burn with him.

Part of Castiel wanted to return to Dean immediately and tell him that he understood now and that he was going to fix it. He still craved for Dean's approval, for approval of any kind, really, because it had been absent for as long as his Father had been. But Castiel saw that approval or even absolution was not something he deserved now. Dean had always believed in actions rather than words and Castiel would show him.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Faint lines on his chest reminded him of the last time he'd had to cut a sigil in his own flesh. Actually, it was Dean who had cut it then. He'd taken the knife from Castiel, sat him down with his back against a wall and while Castiel had closed his eyes, Dean's motions had been quick and deliberate. It hadn't been painless, but the steadying hand on his shoulder had given him something to focus on.

It was different now.

The ritual he needed to brand himself a sacrifice and vanquish Raphael with the power that it brought forth, was composed in four different languages. All words needed to be present on his skin. That way, the person performing the ritual could demonstrate that his sacrifice was genuine and not motivated by personal gain. No-one else could do it for him.

Slowly, he took off the trench coat and dropped it on the floor. The jacket followed. His hands shook slightly as he clumsily undid the buttons of his dress shirt. He was acutely aware of the cold steel on his chest as he started with the Enochian. The concentration the carving required masked some of the pain and he spoke the words out loud to distract himself, but by the time he finished the first part, he was breathing hard. He drew some comfort from the sound the Enochian syllables made as they rang through the empty space. It was the language of his home, after all. It was the first tongue he had been taught.

Next was Hebrew. More mysterious, less familiar than Enochian. It reminded him of the Bible, of the Word, of long gone times in which everything was so much simpler and so much less confounding. The words received their place on his stomach and the blood dripped downwards, staining his dark slacks.

Ancient Greek was diverse, unique and wonderful. Castiel liked how it was still able to surprise him, even though he knew all its words by heart. He spoke it the way they had in the centuries before Christ, allowing his voice to rise and fall in pitch at every accented syllable. It was somewhere between singing and chanting, unlike any modern language. It graced his left arm.

Wielding the knife with his left hand while adding the final characters to his right arm, was more difficult. The last language was Latin, which seemed only fitting. It was the language of the church, more grave and official than Greek. Its seriousness seemed appropriate to the current situation. It belonged in court rooms, in ceremonies, in epigrams. Perhaps also in last stands.

It hurt to put his clothes back on. The white shirt quickly soaked red, but with his jacket on, the blood was not visible. He shrugged on the trench coat with halted movements. Regretfully, he stuffed his tie in the pocket of his coat, unable to tie it himself like Jimmy Novak had done almost three years ago and also Dean, on multiple occasions.

Summoning Raphael was easy compared to the preparations the ritual required. Waiting for him to appear was the hard part. Castiel thought of his friends, miles away, completely unaware and probably sleeping. He'd grown used to companionship over the last years. Of having a phone in his pocket and people to call.

A silent rustle of air behind him made him spin around. He still found it an odd experience to see Raphael in his female vessel. It was unusual for an angel to change the gender of his or her vessel, but he guessed that there were not many humans capable of containing the power of an archangel and that therefore Raphael's choice of available men had been scarce.

"Castiel."

"Raphael." He didn't bother acknowledging the two angels that were standing just behind Raphael. They were clearly his guard and were, what would Dean probably call, 'hammers'.

"You have some nerve, calling me down here." Raphael stepped forward and Castiel had to keep himself from stepping back. "What is keeping me from smiting you right now?"

"I wished to speak with you."

"Do your pet-hunters know you're here? Or your demon-friend, if my information is correct? Really, Castiel, you have surprised me. I always thought you were so … righteous. But I guess everybody has their price, don't they?" Raphael sneered, the lips of his vessel curling in contempt.

The words hit him hard and he averted his eyes for a moment. Then, gathering himself once more, he said: "I'll give you control over Heaven, over the holy host, everything, if you just avert the Apocalypse. Leave Lucifer and Michael where they are and put an end to this."

"Castiel, when I told you everyone had their price, I myself am no exception. But I can tell you that you haven't found it yet. I will not avert the Apocalypse, just because you ask me to." He came up to Castiel, their faces only inches apart. "But you knew that, didn't you? So what are you really here for, brother?"

There was a moment of utter silence, broken eventually by soft words, barely audible to Raphael. "I'm tired."

"Of what?"

"Of running." His voice gained a bit of strength. "I'm tired of running. I want it to be over."

"You're giving up?" Raphael's voice gained an edge of incredulity. When Castiel didn't reply, he continued: "This is your last stand?"

A short nod. It wasn't even a lie.

"And you expect mercy from me?" Raphael questioned, a cruel smile playing around his lips.

Castiel finally made eye-contact. "I am not foolish."

"Then what? A swift death?"

"Perhaps." Castiel reached inside his old trench coat and pulled out his angelic sword. The first gleam of silver made Raphael step backward, while the angels behind him drew their own blades. Castiel made no effort to attack, though, and merely dropped the blade onto the ground. It rolled forward, coming to a standstill against Raphael's shoes. Oddly enough, he felt no remorse parting with it.

Raphael kicked the blade away, approached once more and began circling Castiel. "You rebelled against heaven. You betrayed your Father and your brothers. You've thwarted me and disobeyed. You've lowered yourself to working with a demon. What makes you think you deserve my mercy?"

Castiel looked at the floor in shame. He was a poor shadow of an angel, a disappointment to humans and celestials alike.

Raphael's next words were a whisper very close to his ear. "I'm sorry, Castiel, but I'm going to make an example out of you."

When the two other angels suddenly appeared next to him and grabbed his arms, Castiel didn't struggle. He bit his tongue to keep himself from crying out as they unknowingly put their hands on the cuts underneath his clothes. Raphael, meanwhile, had unsheathed his own sword.

Castiel screamed. He screamed with all his might, he screamed until he was hoarse, he screamed without any hope of being heard or rescued. He screamed for the sake of screaming. The pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt. It pierced him, setting all his neurons on fire, drowning his brain in agony. Sam and Dean gritted their teeth when in pain and usually prevented any sound from passing their lips in order to seem tough and unyielding. Castiel had no such inhibitions.

He was dimly aware of being dropped to the ground and lying there, gasping for air. Then the next invasion came and it was worse than the blade in his body. That had been mere physical torture. He now felt Raphael in his mind, his presence like a battering ram, destroying random memories until it found his Grace. Then Raphael's fingers were touching it, grabbing it, pulling it in an effort to rip it out.

Castiel fought. He'd completely forgotten his dedication to being the sacrifice needed to vanquish Raphael. The necessity of giving up his Grace was lost to him and he reacted with primal emotion to protect the core part of himself. But Raphael was so much stronger and Castiel was failing. Inch by inch, he felt his Grace being torn out, leaving him cold and hollow. He held on with all his might. He heard Raphael telling him that he deserved this, that this was his punishment and for the first time in his life, Castiel was crying, yet clinging to that last bit of light.

Then he heard a voice, loud and clear in the darkness. It was neither his own, nor Raphael's. _Let go. It'll be alright, Castiel. Just let go._ It was surprise rather than conscious action that made his fingers lose their grip on his Grace. With a cry of triumph, Raphael succeeded and Castiel whimpered, too tired to do anything else, as he lost himself.

Raphael laughed, but it lasted only seconds. Castiel didn't open his eyes. Through a haze of pain, he vaguely recalled what was supposed to happen next and it wasn't the last thing he wanted to see in his life. The ritual worked. Castiel had made his sacrifice and it was about to backfire. Raphael enjoyed his victory for a few short moments, before he burned. Every cell of Raphael's vessel combusted and his Grace, too, went up in flames. His screams of agony did not last long and soon, there was nothing left of him but ashes, spread out as wings on the floor. The guards disappeared, the shock of seeing their leader falling being enough to drive them from the building. The warehouse was drowned in silence as Castiel's consciousness faded away. At the same time, miles away, Dean Winchester woke from a dream filled with screaming.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Castiel regained awareness very slowly. One by one, all his senses came back to him and came back heightened. He was conscious of the sound of his own breathing, felt soft sheets with which he was covered and worked up to opening his eyes. What surprised him most – apart from the remarkable fact that he was able to wake up at all – was the complete absence of physical pain. There was nothing to mask the hollowness of his missing grace.

His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the semi-darkness of what seemed to be a cheap motel room. Soon, though, he was able to discern a figure sitting at his bedside. He recognized the man immediately, but it took a while before his muddled brain was capable of producing the name. Sam. Sam Winchester. He tried to sit up.

"Cas!" Sam sprang into action. "Hey, calm down! Calm down. You're safe. We found you. Are you hurt? What happened?"

Sam's hands were on his body, trying to keep him still and suddenly, the memories of the previous nights came crashing back to him in reverse order. Raphael burning. The ritual. Being alone. Dean. He remembered all of it.

He pushed Sam's hands away and tried to speak. Distressed children cried for their mothers, angels for their Father and Castiel intended to call for Dean. But when he tried to form the name, it was as if the air stuck in his throat and he was unable to make a sound. He attempted again and the same thing happened. It felt like choking and Castiel panicked. The effort to speak quickly turned into a struggle to breathe.

"Cas!" Sam said again hurriedly. "Calm down. You're with us. It's okay. Dean!" He turned around and yelled at another figure, sitting several feet behind him with his back towards the bed. "Dean, he's panicking!"

Dean turned reluctantly, but when he saw that Sam wasn't exaggerating and that Castiel was gasping for air, he was at his side in an instant. "Cas, Cas, I'm here." Sam gave him a bit of space and Dean grabbed Castiel's shoulders tightly. "Deep breath. Deep breath, come on. That's it. You're doing fine. No, don't try to speak. Breathe in, come on. Good."

Castiel breathed. It was easy, really. He'd been doing it for years. Then again, the same thing was true for speaking. Dean's hands were still on his shoulders. He noticed he was wearing clothes that weren't his own. A short-sleeved shirt that was slightly too big for him showed that his arms were completely free of the cuts the ritual had required.

"D- D- D-" He was producing sound now and that, in itself, was a relief. His vocal cords were intact. But he still got stuck on the first letter of the name, incapable of finishing it.

"Cas," Dean warned, trying to prevent him from hyperventilating again.

"D-D-D-D-D-D-D-Dea-Dean. Dean." He managed it and drew in a big gulp of air at the end of the word.

"Take it easy, alright?" Dean told him. "Are you hurt?"

Castiel shook his head. He tried to add a verbal 'no', but his throat seemed to block again.

"Are you human?"

Castiel looked away, a pang of regret piercing him somewhere near his heart. He quickly tried to push the pain away. Even if his voice had been working properly, he wasn't sure if he'd have been able to reply to that.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Dean said. His voice was oddly blank and Castiel realized that Dean was still angry at him. "Do you remember what happened? Because I just know that I woke up with you screaming in my head. It took us three days to find the warehouse I saw in my dream, another one for you to wake up after we brought you here. We saw wings on the floor in the place where we found you. I take it they were Raphael's?"

Castiel nodded.

"Did you and Crowley do this?"

Castiel shook his head. Dean's rapid questioning didn't allow him to make an another attempt at speech.

"No Crowley? Why not?"

Castiel shook his head again. He took a deep breath and once more, his voice seemed to block. Eventually, he got a few sounds out. "W-w-w-w-w-w-was … bro-bro-bro-broken."

Dean sighed and a bit of the cold fury seemed to leave him. "Yeah. Yeah, it was. Does it hurt to speak?"

It didn't. He wanted to explain to Dean how his voice didn't do what he wanted, how he was blocked, until he was repeating a syllable over and over to get the word out. But that would take too long.

Dean understood anyway. "It's just hard, right? Don't worry. You probably need to adjust to being human. But I have to know what happened in that warehouse, Cas."

So Castiel told him. It was a slow story, without complete sentences or correct grammar. Mostly words, but Dean knew what he meant. Broken. Ritual. Sacrifice. Raphael. Pain. Human. Fixed it. Castiel's speech didn't seem to get better, just more laboured as he spoke.

Dean clenched his fists and his next words were harsh and angry again. "This was _not_ fixing it, Cas." When Castiel physically recoiled, he elaborated. "We were supposed to do this together! I didn't want you to sacrifice yourself, to give up being angel for this! Jesus, Cas, we'd have found a way! Why didn't you come to me?"

Castiel had no more words and Dean got up from the bed. When he walked away, Castiel helplessly turned to Sam. Sam gave him a sympathetic look. "Try to get some rest, okay? We're not going anywhere."

Castiel sank back in the unfamiliar cushions. He was weary, barely able to keep his eyes open. And right now, there seemed little point in trying anyway.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 2

_There isn't a time that you can remember when you weren't able to speak. Others may have chronicled your first words, but they came long before your own memory was capable of recalling them. _

_Over the years, you've learned language. The letters first. Then words. Sentences. Stories. As you got more fluent, you started to take it for granted. You throw syllables around carelessly, disregarding where they've come from and what they mean. It takes effort to appreciate language and you don't have the time anymore. _

_Until the morning you wake up and find it gone. But it's too late then._

Exhaustion had overtaken Castiel and for the first time in his life, he was dreaming. He knew the concept of dreams, of course, having walked in and out of them when delivering messages to humans. However, he'd never experienced them himself.

_He was standing in a dark alleyway. The wind was howling past the brick walls on either side of him. A voice behind him caused him to spin around. _

"_Angels are not the only ones capable of invading dreams, Castiel."_

_Crowley was approaching from the other side of the alley. Castiel tried to back away, but it was as if his feet were stuck to the ground. He was unable to move. _

"_You can't run from me, Cas. I'm coming for you."_

Castiel started breathing hard when he became aware of a different voice and hands shaking him from sleep.

"Cas! Come on, wake up!"

Castiel's eyes snapped open to meet Sam Winchester's. His gaze roamed the room, but there was no sign of Crowley. He saw only Dean, who was looking at him with an unreadable expression.

"You okay?" Sam got up from the bed and opened the curtains, allowing the morning sunlight to stream in.

Castiel nodded and made an effort to tell him that it had only been a dream, but his voice blocked again and he couldn't get a sound out. Also, he wasn't entirely sure it had been 'only a dream'. Perhaps demons could intrude in the minds of humans as well and Crowley was truly trying to hunt him down. He shuddered at the thought.

Sam saw him struggling with his speech. "Still no luck with your voice?" He asked sympathetically.

Castiel just shook his head.

"Well, keep trying, okay?" Sam said, before grabbing his jacket. The next was directed at both Dean and Castiel. "I'm going to get us some breakfast. I'll be back in fifteen."

The door closed behind him, leaving an awkward silence behind. Dean was leaning against the wall furthest away from Castiel's bed. He was staring at Castiel, who felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "Guess we need to find you some clean clothes."

While he rummaged through his own bag, Castiel threw back the blankets and got up from the bed. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, no doubt owing to the fact that he'd barely been awake the past few days and his newfound humanity required sustenance. He studied his wrists and saw, like the previous night, that there wasn't a mark on them. It puzzled him. Even if, by some miracle, he'd been able to survive Raphael's attack and the theft of his Grace, his body should still bear the wounds.

Dean eventually found a pair of jeans and a shirt that seemed to fit Castiel. He gave them to him and showed him to the small bathroom. There, Dean demonstrated how the shower worked and left Castiel to his own devices. He was not unkind, but still distant and Castiel was secretly happy to be on his own for a moment.

The shower was nice. He noticed that the marks on his chest were also gone, even the ones that Dean had cut a year ago. It was as if he'd been given a new body for his human existence. Dean's clothes fit him just barely. He spent five minutes fiddling with the belt to get the jeans to stay on. When he came out of the bathroom, Dean handed him a pair of shoes.

"Here. These are my old trainers. We'll get you something better soon, but for now, these'll have to do."

"Th-th-th-th-th-thanks," Castiel managed. He sat down on the bed and put the shoes on. Then he paused helplessly, laces in his hands.

Dean knelt down in front of him without saying a word and took the shoelaces from Castiel. Castiel looked away, feeling humiliated and childish in front of his friend.

"Pay attention, Cas," Dean said, tapping Castiel's knee when he saw that he wasn't listening. "Look at what I'm doing." He slowly tied the laces in a neat knot. He proceeded to do the same with the other shoe. Castiel wanted to withdraw his foot when he was finished, but Dean grabbed his ankle. "No, no. Your turn." He pulled one of the laces and the knot disintegrated.

Castiel glared at him, then bent over and gave it a go. Halfway through, he pulled one of the strings too hard and his attempt fell apart, leaving him behind in confusion. Dean untied the mess and made him start over. The second time, Castiel managed it. His own disguised euphoria was rivalled by Dean's, who got up and slapped him on the back.

"There you go! That's good, Cas."

"Ju-ju-ju-ju-ju-just a … shoe," Castiel muttered.

Dean feigned outrage. "Just a shoe? Cas, they give kids diplomas for this in school, you know!"

Castiel stared at him in disbelief.

"It's true," Dean insisted. "Ask Sam. It took him ages to get his."

It was as if that simple exchange somehow dispelled some of the coldness that had settled between them in the past week or so. The awkwardness was gone and a bit of the tension had followed it.

"Do you want to shave," Dean indicated the stubble on his Cas' chin, "or run a comb through your hair?"

Castiel gave him a helpless look combined with a half-hearted shrug.

Dean sighed apologetically. "Right. Come on, I'll help."

Castiel followed him back into the bathroom and sat down on the lid of the toilet at Dean's orders. Dean grabbed his own razor, covered Castiel's face in shaving cream and slowly started shaving him. Castiel closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping still. Dean's left hand was on his forehead, pushing it backward slightly, his other hand steady in his strokes.

"Cas, pay attention," Dean's voice rumbled close to his ear for the second time that day. "You need to be able to do this yourself."

Castiel reluctantly opened his eyes and followed Dean's movements as best as he could. Dean finished quickly and wiped away the remains of the cream. Castiel ran a careful hand along his cheek. He liked the way it felt.

Next, Dean grabbed a comb and started running it through Castiel's wet hair, getting some tangles out. "Now," he said, "I have no idea what Jimmy used to do to get it to stand up like it did, but I imagine it was something like this." He moved his hands from Castiel's forehead to his crown, raising some of the strands a little. A few passes through Castiel's hair like that made it look the way it had done the previous years.

"Alright, that should do it," Dean grinned and stepped back to wash his hands.

Castiel remained seated and tried to say something. "Sssssss …" The sound seemed to stick in his throat and he abandoned his effort, frustrated.

Dean turned to him and shut off the water. He crouched at Castiel's side again. "Try again," he encouraged patiently.

"Sssss …" Castiel started to really hate the letter 's', but Dean just waited. "Ssssorry," he finally spat out and then, when he had some momentum, "I'm sorry."

Dean said nothing and Castiel bowed his head, staring at his shoelaces, one of which – the one he'd tied himself – was starting to come undone again. Finally, Dean got up and placed his hand on Castiel's hair. The gesture made the former angel hold his breath. Somehow, it was so much more intimate than Dean shaving him or putting in gel. He felt like an accused, waiting to be either convicted or acquitted by his judge and executioner.

"I know," Dean said, his voice rough. "I know. It'll be okay. We'll get there."

Then the hand was removed and Castiel was on his own again, sitting on the lid of the toilet in the cramped bathroom, trembling all over.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Sam got them all breakfast. It took Castiel longer to eat than either of them, so by the time he finished they were already packing their bags into the Impala. He heard them talking just outside the hotel room. They probably didn't even realize he could still hear them.

"Now what?" It was Sam's voice.

"What do you mean 'now what'?" Dean asked, annoyed. "What are you suggesting? That we just dump Cas and haul ass out of here?"

"Of course not," Sam replied in a placating voice and Castiel sighed in relief. "But we can't get on the road and look for another hunt. We need to lie low for a while, teach Cas how to hunt, stuff like that."

"Stuff like that," Dean repeated wryly. "We can't do this, Sam. I mean, he's _completely_ new at this. He doesn't know when or what to eat, he doesn't have any clothes. He's got no idea what he likes or dislikes. He can't use weapons, hell, he can't even speak! We have to tie his shoelaces for him, dammit!"

"No, we don't," Sam said reasonably. "You taught him that this morning. He showed me, actually."

"I can't do this, Sam," Dean's voice started to gain a desperate edge. "I fuck things up, I can't teach a guy how to live! I can't teach him how to be human and happy and all that shit! Hell, I'm not even sure if I can forgive him for all the lying he did this year."

"He gave up his Grace to make this right, Dean. That's got to count for something."

"I never wanted him to do that," Dean muttered.

"I know. But he was trying to fix things. He has been all year. Besides, I think you forgave him the moment you carried him out of that warehouse."

"Doesn't mean I can take care of him," Dean argued half-heartedly.

"Do you really think Cas would want anyone else as his teacher and example?"

"It'd be so easy to screw this up, Sam."

"I recognize that," Sam said sympathetically. "But I'll help. And Bobby too. We'll call him, okay? See if we can crash at his place for the next few months."

"Yeah, okay," Dean answered wearily. "Ask him if he knows something about angels that have become human having problems with their voices. What do you think that is, by the way?"

"Don't know. Sounds like a stutter, to be honest. Not a problem with his voice itself. But it's quite severe. Never heard someone struggle like that. You remember Dave from that high school we went to in Dallas for half a year? He sounded a bit like that."

Then their voices grew more distant as they walked to the car and Castiel could no longer hear them. He felt sorry for Dean for having to put up with him. He felt sorry for slowing them down and keeping them in one place. But the old, familiar selfishness that had troubled him the past few months started to take over again and he knew he wasn't able to leave, nor did he want to. He had nowhere to go.

Ten minutes later, Sam and Dean came back into the room. Dean was carrying Castiel's trench coat.

"Here. Your suit was full of blood, but we were able to save your coat. I'm afraid it'll have to do for now, we haven't got a spare."

Castiel took it and put it on. He couldn't imagine wanting to wear a different coat. He felt in the pockets and was pleasantly surprised to find his blue tie there. He offered it to Dean. "C-c-c-c-c-c-c-could you … t- … t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-tie it?"

"I'm not sure it'd go well with your current clothes, Cas," Dean replied, sceptically taking in the jeans and button-down shirt.

Castiel sent him a pleading look.

"Sure," Dean gave in. He stepped forward and tied it in a loose knot around Castiel's neck, just like he'd worn it the past few years. He'd been right, it looked ridiculous with Castiel's current apparel, but Castiel enjoyed the familiarity of having it around his neck and being able to fidget with the end.

They told him about the plan to go to Bobby's and he nodded as if he heard it for the first time. Then they all packed into the Impala and hit the road.

SPNPSNPSNPSPNSPNSPNSPN

The day passed uneventfully. Castiel spent it in the back of the Impala, staring out of the window. One thing he noticed about being human was that he seemed to be perpetually cold. Perhaps his clothes were inadequate or his body had simply not adjusted to keeping itself warm yet. He didn't mention this to Sam and Dean. In fact, he didn't 'mention' anything. Mentioning was a verb that implied ease. It was something done without thought, casually, effortlessly. Every word posed a struggle for Castiel.

He'd discovered that his problem was threefold. First of all, there were the blocks. When he blocked, he couldn't get any sound out. His breath seemed to stick in his throat and there was just struggling silence. The second issue was when he got stuck on a syllable, repeating it over and over again, but unable to pass to the next. The third thing he experienced was when he repeated one letter or sound longer than he was supposed to, drawing out his words and sentences, until they were parodies of language.

Overall, his first proper day as a human was miserable. He was grateful when it was time to retreat to another cheap motel room. He changed into the clothes he'd slept in the night before and curled under the blankets in a foetal position. He was still cold. Dean cast him a concerned look at one point, but then seemed to catch himself and looked away.

Castiel slept.

_He was back in the alley, only this time, there was only one exit and it was blocked by Crowley. Castiel tried to back away, but his back was firmly set against a brick wall. _

_Crowley was approaching. He wasn't in a hurry, but used his slow steps to drive Castiel's breathing and heart rate up to dangerous levels. When he was just a few feet away from him, he could no longer bear it: "W-w-w-w-w-w-w-what … what do you-you … w-w-w-w-w-w-w-want from … m-m-me?"_

_Crowley halted. "You know, I could fix that for you," he said silkily, not unkind. "That stammer of yours. Do you want me to?" He didn't wait for a reply, but snapped his fingers. "There. Try again."_

"_Leave me alone!" Castiel was surprised to find that the words rolled smoothly from his tongue, just like they had done when he'd still been an angel. It was an immense relief. _

"_Much better, don't you think?" Crowley smirked. "I could make this permanent for you. If you find me – or allow _me_ to find you – I could fix your speech. I could even …" he lowered his voice and Castiel involuntarily leaned in to catch his final words , "… fix your Grace."_

"_I don't need your help." It didn't sound convincing._

_Crowley's laughter echoed through the alley. "But you will, boy. You will."_

Castiel startled awake. He was on his back, blankets kicked away. It was the middle of the night and Dean and Sam were both sleeping. He quickly retrieved the covers and lay back down, still breathing hard.

He wasn't even that afraid of Crowley. Dean and Sam slept with knives and guns underneath their pillow and they'd killed bigger things than Crowley. The thing that scared him, was that Crowley's offer actually tempted him. To be restored, fully and wholly, was something that had reverberated through his mind from the moment he'd lost his Grace.

He clenched his fists and dug his nails in his palms. He'd betrayed his friends once and they'd still come for him. They found him, they took him in and they'd even drawn upon some tiny bit of forgiveness. He couldn't do this to them again.

To avoid temptation and perhaps to punish himself a little for feeling it in the first place, Castiel vowed to remain awake from now on. He'd done it as an angel and if he just showed enough willpower, or so he thought, he'd be able to stave off sleep. With wide-open eyes, Castiel counted the night away.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"Did you even sleep?"

"Y-y-y-yes."

"Really?"

"_Yes_."

Dean held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Alright, alright. Just asking." He pointed to the bathroom. "You going to try shaving yourself?"

Castiel gave a weary nod and trod into the bathroom. Staying awake was not as easy as he'd anticipated. He'd managed it, but at a cost. His hands were shaking a bit as he tried to mimic the motions Dean had performed yesterday and it wasn't long before he cut himself. A thin gash appeared on his cheek and he threw the razor down in frustration. A few drops of blood trickled down into the sink and Castiel gave up a bit.

Eventually, Dean came to check on him. He wiped away the blood, picked up the razor and finished Castiel's work. "Happens to everyone. No big deal, okay? Come on, you haven't had breakfast yet. We're leaving in thirty minutes and if we're lucky, we should reach Bobby's at nightfall."

Castiel allowed himself to be ushered out of the bathroom, feeling humiliated and childish.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Castiel loved and hated the Impala. It was comfortable and safe and that's why he liked it. On the other hand, it was too comfortable and too safe and it produced a low, rumbling sounds that reminded of the constant noise the Holy Host used to make in his ear, passing messages back and forth.

It was after dinner, around seven o'clock in the evening, when he lost his battle against sleep. The sound of the car had been luring him into a trance all day, but oddly enough, when he finally did fall asleep, it was fine. Perhaps it was the sense of safety the car gave him or the pleasant constant whirring in his ear, but there was no sign of Crowley in his head.

It was nearing eleven when Dean shook him awake. The Impala was pulled up in front of Bobby Singer's house and Castiel saw him standing underneath a porch light. He hesitated a bit before coming out of the car. While Dean and Sam had not turned him away, he was unsure how easily Bobby would overlook his past transgressions.

He got out of the car and straightened his coat. While Sam and Dean walked up to Bobby and greeted and hugged him, Castiel was rooted to the spot.

At last, Bobby turned to him. When he spoke, it was in the same gruff voice he always used. "Well, are you waiting for a written invitation, boy?"

Castiel almost tripped over his own feet in his hurry to get to the entrance and Bobby guided him in with a heavy hand on his shoulder. The door closed behind him and Castiel let out a sigh of relief. He was allowed to stay.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 3

_Learning is easy. It's relearning, unlearning, remembering and forgetting that's hard. The most difficult is the memory of something you used to have. Youth, love, power. Unbearable is the knowledge that you'll never get it back. _

Bobby actually had a sizeable house. The only reason Dean often camped out on the couch while they were staying there, was because most of the spare rooms were cluttered up with books and artefacts of all sorts. Bobby had hastily emptied three of them and therefore Castiel, Dean and Sam had their own rooms.

Bobby showed Castiel to his. "It's not much," he told the former angel. "A bed, a closet, a desk. Feel free to fill some of the shelves up with books from the library. I showed you that earlier, remember?"

Castiel nodded. "Th-th-th-th-thanks."

"No problem." Bobby watched how Castiel sank down on his bed. He hesitated at the door. "Are you doing alright?"

"F-f-f-f-f-fine."

"Sure you are," Bobby told him sarcastically. "I spent a year in a wheelchair, I know adjusting is hard. Don't try telling me otherwise. How are you feeling?"

Castiel stared at his hands and considered he couldn't possibly express what he was feeling. All the desperation, fear and self-loathing couldn't be voiced or even written down. Eventually, he settled for a different kind of answer: "I'm … c-c-c-c-c-cold."

There was a short silence. Then Bobby said: "We can fix that. I've got some spare coats and blankets in my room. Follow me."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

He spent another sleepless night, this time in his own room, huddled under a mountain of blankets and curled up with one of Bobby's books. It was easier to stay awake this time and he even experienced a modicum of satisfaction at his warm and comfortable bed.

Just like the first night, the next day was the hardest. Around noon, he was fighting sleep again and had to try his utmost not to attract suspicion from the Winchesters and Bobby. It was a relief when Dean got up and announced that they had some shopping to do. The both of them got in the Impala and headed for the nearest town.

"This," Dean waved a shiny bit of plastic at Castiel, "is a brand-new credit card. We're getting you a wardrobe."

At first, Castiel was hesitant. He wasn't sure what he liked or what was appropriate, but Dean quickly made clear that 'appropriateness' was definitely not a category when choosing clothes.

A shopping assistant emanated disapproval as Dean tied a black tie around Castiel's neck, while he was wearing a shirt, blouse and faded jeans.

"Excuse me, but that isn't really supposed to go together."

Dean ignored her completely. "Cas, do you like it?"

"Yes."

"We'll take it."

They got Castiel casual clothes, new shoes, a few warmer items, jeans and even a suit that was similar to what Jimmy Novak had worn. They also got him running shoes, which quickly became Castiel's favourite purchase. At the end of the day, the best thing was that Castiel had seemed to develop a bit of his own style. His clothes weren't typically something that Sam or Dean (or any ordinary human for that matter) would wear and he wasn't a copy of either of them.

The only thing that put a bit of a damper on the whole experience was that whenever someone besides Dean had spoken to Castiel, Castiel's voice had blocked completely and he hadn't gotten a word out. They both tried their best not to let it bother them.

The ride back was supposed to take only about fifteen minutes, but after barely a mile, Castiel's head had sagged against the window and he was sound asleep. Dean took a wrong turn and ensured the journey lasted almost two hours.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

It was interesting to see how quickly they settled into some sort of domestic routine. Sam was reading a book at the kitchen table. Dean was next to him, watching a baseball game on a small television set in the corner.

Bobby was preparing dinner. He picked up a can of beans and threw it to Castiel, who barely caught it. "What's the date on that, Cas? I can't read it."

Castiel studied the can, but before he was able to even find the information, Dean snatched it from his hands. "They're good, Bobby. Won't go off till the .."

"Did I ask you?" Bobby interrupted, turning around to face Dean.

"Well, no," Dean replied, slightly flustered. "But you know, with Cas' voice and all…" He gestured vaguely in Castiel's direction.

"And you think it's going to get better if you deprive him of every opportunity to speak, you idjit?"

Dean's mouth opened and closed without a sound.

"And you," Bobby rounded on Castiel. "Open your mouth! If you got something to say, you say it, alright? And if I ask you something, you answer me. Now give me that damn date!"

Dean quickly returned the can to Castiel, who almost dropped it in his haste to turn it over. "Ja-ja-ja-ja-january … twenty-se-se-se-se-seven."

"Thank you." 

"Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-what if … what if it wwwwon't get … b-b-better?" Castiel asked suddenly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, this had been bothering him since he'd first discovered he had trouble speaking.

Bobby put to down the pan he was holding and faced the table once more. Sam closed his book and Dean tore his eyes away from the television screen. It was clear that they'd also been considering this.

"First off," Bobby began, "it's too early to say that. But in the future, we could try goin' to a doctor about and the doc can figure something out if we can't. First thing's first, though, gotta get you some papers, which could take a while – can't be done overnight."

Castiel wasn't thrilled by the idea of having to visit a doctor. Human medicine, though impressive from a distance, wasn't something the former angel wanted to experience.

"I've been reading up on stuttering," Sam added, "And I couldn't find any connection with fallen angels in material on celestials. Not that much is known about them anyway. But most young children who stutter, grow out of it as they get older. So perhaps you will as well."

Castiel bristled a bit at being compared to a child and the label of 'fallen angel' stung, but what Sam said, did make sense. It was at least somewhat hopeful.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

It could work, Castiel reasoned, as the hour of two o'clock in the morning approached. He'd caught a few hours of dreamless sleep this afternoon in the Impala and if he could only convince Dean to drive a distance every few days – which wasn't hard, given Dean's love for his car -, he would never have to sleep during the night. He turned the page of the book he'd snagged from Bobby's library and shifted a little under the mountain of blankets. He liked to read, Castiel decided. When he was an angel, there was little need for him to do so. Almost all knowledge was shared among the Holy Host and there was no need for own research. Or own opinion and taste, for that matter. Perhaps it would've been better if there had been.

Suddenly, the door to his room opened and Castiel's train of thought was rudely interrupted.

"Most people sleep with the light off, Cas," Dean remarked lightly as he closed the door behind him and grabbed the chair near Castiel's desk to sit on. "I thought you said you'd been sleeping well?"

Castiel used the silence that followed to close his book and to put it on his nightstand. Then he lay back and stared at the ceiling. "I c-c-c-c-c-c-couldn't sssssleep."

"Really? Because you look pretty damn tired to me," Dean said, his voice still light, but with a dangerous edge to it now.

"Really."

"Well, if that's the case, I'll just get a few sleeping pills from Bobby's medicine cabinet for you. That should make it easy for you."

Panic flared in Castiel. He couldn't imagine anything worse in his situation than being trapped in sleep, completely at the mercy of Crowley. "N-n-no!"

"It's no trouble," Dean added cruelly, getting up and walking away towards the door. "I'll be right back."

"C-C-C-C-C-Crowley."

That stopped Dean in his tracks. He slowly turned back to Castiel. "Excuse me?" There was no mistaking the danger in his voice this time.

"C-C-Crowley. He's … in my d-d-d-d-dreams. C-c-c-c-an't … can't ssssleep," Castiel struggled, sitting up in his bed.

Dean came back and sat down again. "Crowley's been visiting you in your dreams? How many times?"

Castiel nodded and held up two fingers. "H-h-h-h-h-he's going to … going to f-f-f-f-f-f-find me. He's a-a-angry. I got t-to …" He threw the blankets back and starting getting up.

Dean grabbed his arm and prevented him from leaving. "Hey! Hey, where are you going?"

Castiel looked at Dean. "H-h-h-h-h-he'll ffffind ….-"

"He won't find you here," Dean interrupted. "This house is warded against demons. There are hex bags, spells, devil's traps, magic. It's the safest place in the country, I promise you." Castiel relaxed under his grip and sat back down on the bed. Dean threw some blankets over him. "Here, you're freezing. Now calm down. I need to know what happened. You've seen Crowley in your dreams twice. I guess that was when we stayed at the motels, right?" He waited for Castiel's nod. "And he's been threatening you, correct?" Another nod. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Castiel looked down in shame and fiddled with his night-shirt. "D-d-d-d-d-didn't … didn't want you … t-to leave me."

Dean sighed and dragged a weary hand across your eyes. "You don't get it, do you, Cas? We came to find you in the warehouse. You made a mistake. I've made many this year when it comes to you. We're not going to leave you, Cas. Not even when Crowley and all the forces of hell are in front of the damn door, understood?"

Castiel gave him a weak smile. "I w-w-w-w-won't sleep a-a-again," he promised.

"That's not realistic," Dean countered. "You've seen that doesn't work out. I'm guessing that's why you fall asleep in the Impala?"

Castiel mumbled something about the noise and about how it felt safe.

"And you have no dreams there?"

"No."

"I didn't know demons could even appear in dreams. Reckoned that was just an angel-trick," Dean thought out-loud. "Are you sure it's not simply a nightmare?"

Castiel wasn't sure, to be honest. On the other hand: "H-h-h-h-he's K-k-king of Hell."

"True," Dean acknowledged. "Alright, here's what we're going to do. Tomorrow, we'll tell Sam and Bobby. They need to hear this, perhaps they've got some ideas on how to handle it. And we're going to start training you. Close-combat, weapons, all that stuff. You're going to know how to defend yourself as a human, if you ever need to, okay? But for now, you're going to sleep."

Castiel had been nodding along at Dean's suggestions, but frowned at his last comment.

Dean foresaw his protest. "He can't get to you, Cas. Even if he's in your dreams, he can't get to you here. And I'm going to stay during the night. I'll wake you up as soon as you have a nightmare."

Castiel was not convinced. "H-h-h-how?"

Dean leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He suddenly looked a lot older, weary, and he scared Castiel slightly. "I've seen you have nightmares before. Remember that time Zachariah sent me to 2014 to show me the future? Well, I saw you there. You were human. I woke you up a few times when I stayed with you."

"Wh-wh-what did I … did I d-d-dream?"

"I don't know." Dean smiled wryly. "You wouldn't tell me. Just shrugged it off and went back to sleep. But I know what you look like when you're dreaming."

"Was I … was I h-h-hap-happy there? A-as a … hu-human?"

Dean's expression became pained. "It's not important. That's not your future, Cas."

"H-h-how d'you … know?"

"I just do, alright?" Dean's voice became stronger. "I'm going to make sure it's different this time. I promised you that."

Castiel didn't dare ask more and let the silence endure, delaying the moment Dean was going to turn the light off.

"Come on, you really need to sleep," Dean said at last, sitting up again.

"D-d-d-d-don't you?"

"I'll sleep in the chair. Don't worry, I sleep light. I'll still wake if you so much as stir."

Castiel considered this for a moment, then shifted his body more towards the wall, away from Dean, creating a large space next to him. "B-b-b-bed's b-b-big enough."

Dean didn't smile.

It took Castiel a second to realize why not. "H-h-he ssaid that, d-d-d-didn't he? In t-t-t-two-t-t-t-thousand-fourteen?"

"Yeah," Dean replied wearily. "Yeah, he did. Doesn't matter, Cas." He got up and Castiel watched him as he locked the door from the inside. Then he joined Castiel in the bed and pulled some of the blankets over himself, before killing the light and covering the room in darkness. "Doesn't matter, Cas. Because, you see, I told him that the floor was big too. I didn't take his offer. You're different." He nudged Castiel's shoulder and his tone became less grave. "Don't tell Sam and Bobby about this, though. They'll never let us hear the end of it."

Dean ended up waking him twice that night, at exactly the right moment. The bed was warm, perfectly warm, and Castiel was more comfortable than he thought humans could be. He'd go as far as to say that he was temporarily happy.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

The next morning, Bobby increased the protection of the house even more. There were now salt lines in Castiel's room, including a devil's trap under the carpet. Together they concluded that it wasn't strictly impossible for demons to also appear in dreams, so therefore they couldn't be sure whether Crowley was just a nightmare or a more ominous omen.

Dean started training Castiel. They began with running and building some endurance, which Castiel needed, due to, what Dean called, 'the unfortunate habit of angels to avoid all exercise'. He didn't miss flying nearly as much as he thought he would. Running actually appealed to him, partly because he was good at it. Lighter and smaller than Sam and Dean, he was quicker than them even without much practise.

"You'll be able to outrun Crowley in no-time, Cas!"

"You c-c-c-can't out-out-outrun demons, D-D-D-Dean."

"I know. I was being … never mind. Let's go around the scrap yard once more."

Actual fighting was harder to teach. They didn't need to go over technique, Castiel knew all of that. Neither of them liked bringing it up, but Castiel had given Dean a pretty good demonstration of his skills when Dean had escaped the panic room to say 'yes' to Michael. However, back then, he'd been relying on his angelic strength. Without it, his punches didn't quite have the impact they had before.

"Don't worry, you'll get there. Not all of us need to be ridiculously gigantic, do we, Sam?"

"You're just jealous, Dean. When was the last time you floored me? When I was twelve?"

"Cas, punch him for me. As a practise exercise."

They didn't start weapons training until a week later, when Castiel had had seven days' worth of sleep with Dean at his side. Castiel was an average shot at best, his disdain for guns and their inelegant destruction holding him back. He was holding the pistol properly, but due to pulling the trigger without aiming for more than a second, his shots still missed the target often. Dean tried to impress upon Castiel the need for accuracy, but the former angel just shrugged.

Accuracy wasn't the most dangerous aspect of weapons training with Castiel, though. Much more perilous was his blatant disregard of gun safety. He was prone to carelessly dropping the guns on the table when he was finished with them. A week after they started practising, Bobby saw Castiel pointing the gun in his own face, looking down the barrel as if he was trying to spot a blockage. It had been the final straw. Bobby had quickly grabbed the gun, put on the safety latch and then dragged Castiel into the scrap yard to wash cars for the rest of the day, while the old hunter lectured from a distant about accidents and gun safety.

"Well done, Cas, you're really part of the family now."

"Dean was seven when he first received the don't-be-an-idjit-with-guns-lecture. Nine when he got the second one. Then twelve for the third. Then sixteen-"

"Yes, thank you, Sammy. You were six, if I remember correctly? Got there early, did you?"

"Count yourself lucky he didn't ground you, Cas."

A few weeks flew by and they settled into a comfortable routine. When he wasn't training Castiel, Dean worked with Bobby on the cars. Sam took upon him the task of teaching Castiel how to dispose of most of the monsters they'd encountered over the years. Castiel had been used to simply smiting his enemies and was ignorant of the subtleties of silver bullets and stakes. They also took on translation work (Latin, Greek, Enochian) for other hunters.

Castiel became almost a proper human, making headway in all areas, with the exception of his stuttering. However, there were still times that they were painfully reminded of the fact that not every rule of humanity was as easily taught.

It was a warm day in the salvage yard and Dean and Bobby were replacing a tire on an old Jaguar. Castiel was hanging back, leaning against a wreck and enjoying the sun, when he was joined by the elderly owner of the Jag, who was waiting until he could continue his journey.

"Do you have the time on you, boy?"

Castiel gazed at the second-hand watch Dean had bought for him. It beeped every few hours to remind him to eat or drink something. He'd needed that the first weeks as a human, because it had been difficult for him to tell when he was hungry or thirsty and he'd come close to fainting a few times. It was no longer necessary now and Dean had offered to turn the beeping off, but Castiel rather liked the routine. "F-f-f-f-four thir-thirty."

The man cast him a questioning glance. "You okay, son?"

"F-f-f-fine."

"Here, take one of these. Always helped me relax." The customer grappled around in the pocket of his shirt for a moment, before fishing out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one himself and offered another to Castiel.

Castiel took it. Perhaps this man was an expert. Nothing else he'd tried over the past weeks had worked. He might as well give it a go. Besides, the man was kind to him. Most strangers he attempted to speak to, either treated him as if he had a mental deficiency or simply ignored him. The customer offered him a light. Castiel copied his actions and carefully took his first drag.

It was … interesting. Not nice, per se, and it made him cough a little. But there was something in it that appealed to him, that intrigued him. He liked different tastes. Dean often teased him that he'd eat anything they offered him, because Castiel simply wanted to try everything. He took another drag, this time attempting to blow out the smoke just like the man next to him did. It worked partially.

He was about to bring the cigarette to his mouth again, when he saw Dean approaching.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean snatched the cigarette from his hands, threw it down and extinguished it with his foot. Then he turned to the customer and said coldly: "Your car is ready, sir. You," he pointed at Castiel, who was feelings vaguely bemused and still ignorant as to the reason why he was being yelled at, "get inside and get into your running clothes."

"W-w-w-we ran this … this morning!" Castiel protested, glancing regretfully at the squashed cigarette at his feet.

"And you're running again. Go."

Dean was livid and Castiel jogged to the house in order to comply. Dean made him run the road leading up to the yard. It was nearly a mile in length and whenever Castiel made it back, Dean sent him on his way again. Castiel liked running, but the heat and the left-over exhaustion from the exercise that morning made it difficult for him. After nearly an hour, he was barely jogging, pausing frequently to catch his breath.

"Do you really think this is necessary?"

"Mind your own business, Sam."

Sam came over to stand next to him. "You're not dad, Dean. You don't need to bully Cas if you want him to do or not do something. Treat him like an adult and ask him."

"I told you to mind your own business," Dean hissed, keeping his eyes on Castiel, who was coming down the road again.

"Not when you're being a dick," Sam snapped. "Cas, you can stop. This is ridiculous. Come back inside, I'll get you something to drink."

"Cas, keep going!" Dean ordered.

Castiel was torn, looking from Dean to Sam and back. In the end, tiredness and indignation at not fully knowing why he was being punished like this, won out and he slowed down to walking. Ignoring Dean's shouting, he followed Sam inside.

Sam got him a glass of cola and explained why he shouldn't smoke. Castiel understood, accepted it and regretted taking the cigarette. He and Dean didn't speak for the remainder of the evening. Castiel was already in bed when Dean eventually came through the door. He joined Castiel under the blankets and Castiel was slightly relieved about that. He hadn't slept a night without Dean.

"Sorry." Dean wasn't looking at him as he forced the word out.

Castiel took the apology with a curt nod of his head. It wasn't completely sincere and they both knew it. Two months into being human and the first cracks started to appear.

TBC

**A/N**: Thank you for all the kind and awesome comments I've gotten this far! I really enjoy reading what you think and what your favourite and least favourite parts are, because they often differ from what I'd have guessed. It tells me much about my own writing and about what works and what doesn't, and I truly appreciate that. Feel free to tell me if you think the characters are too OOC or my plot too fluffy. I can take that into account for next chapters. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 4

_Some people don't deserve language. You realize that sounds cruel, but it's the truth. You're not even sure what you think the worst of crimes is: not caring about words or using them for improper purposes. The first breeds contempt in you, the second anger, sometimes fear. _

_You hate those people. Perhaps you hate language too, once you realize it isn't your mistress – like you'd wish -, but you are its slave. But even if you stop speaking, stop hearing, there will always be words in your head. Pictures are limited. Language isn't. _

Not long after that, Bobby got a call about their first serious hunt in a town approximately twenty miles away. A shapeshifter was terrorizing a particular neighbourhood, leaving unexplainable CCTV footage for the local police. Dean had deemed Castiel ready for a proper hunt. While Sam briefed him on the lore on shapeshifters, Dean loaded their guns with silver bullets and handed one to Castiel.

The ride to the town was tense and fast. Bobby knew from the person who'd put them on the trail of the shifter where about in the sewers its lair was. They entered the sewers close to that location, lowering themselves one by one into the narrow pipes. When they got close, they decided to split up, Dean and Castiel going one way, Sam and Bobby the other.

Dean was walking a bit in front of him, Castiel following close behind, checking over his shoulder once in a while, clutching his gun. He liked the anticipation and relished the absence of fear and presence of adrenaline.

Then there was a noise up ahead of them. Dean started running. "Come on, Cas!"

Another pipe diverged to their right and Castiel detected a second noise and a dark shape at the end of it. Dean was out of sight by that time and Castiel didn't hesitate. Instead of following his friend, he took the path to his right and chased after the shadow. He came to another crossing, but this time, he saw nothing. On a whim, he went left. He ran through the pipes, his own breathing echoing against the thick, concrete walls. There was nothing in front of him.

"Cas! Over here!"

He came screeching to a halt, almost slipping on the wet floor. He turned back. "D-D-Dean?"

"Over here! Behind you!"

Castiel jogged back until he saw Dean's flashlight in front of him. "Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me."

But it didn't feel like Dean. Though Castiel no longer had the power to sense souls, he'd come to know what Dean felt like, in the many nights they'd lain side by side during the night. This wasn't Dean. Slowly, he aimed the gun, right at the other man's heart.

"Cas? What are you doing? It's me!" Dean's voice became a little desperate.

Castiel faltered. What if he was wrong? This was his friend. His best friend.

Dean approached him. "Just lower the gun. Then we can get this thing, alright?"

Dean trusted him. He'd forgiven him. And now Castiel was going to shoot him in a damp sewer pipe.

A loud _bang_ echoed viciously against the walls. Castiel dropped his weapon and brought his hands to his ears. The shapeshifter exploded and showered him with bits of skin and blood. He could see Dean – the real Dean – behind it, a hint of smoke rising up from the barrel of his gun. Bobby and Sam came rushing up behind me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean demanded, his voice almost shaking with rage. "Why didn't you shoot?"

"I-I-I wasn't … sssure," Castiel said defensively.

"That doesn't matter! He could've killed you! You should've shot anyway, even if there was just a hint of doubt that that wasn't me!"

"Y-y-y-you'd … you'd shoot m-me?"

"That's different. I've encountered shapeshifters before. This is not my first hunt. You should've shot him, Cas!"

"No, he shouldn't have," Bobby interrupted. "You don't go shooting your friends on a hunch. You shouldn't have lowered your gun, though. That could've been dangerous."

Castiel lowered his head at the rebuke, but his shame was quickly trumped by anger at Dean. He picked up the weapon he'd dropped out of a puddle and pushed the wet thing into Dean's hand, before striding past him in the direction where he thought the entrance was.

The adrenaline quickly faded and in the Impala, the need for sleep overcame him. Dean's sharp cornering, however, repeatedly made him bang his head against the window, preventing him from really falling asleep. Somehow, he had the idea that Dean was doing it on purpose.

Back at the house, he waited until just after dinner and then took off to his room, locking the door behind. Around midnight, he heard Dean try to open it.

"Cas? Let me in, man. Need to talk to you."

But Castiel turned his face towards the wall, drew the blankets over his ears and ignored the persistent knocking.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"_Long time no see, Castiel."_

_Crowley was casually leaning against the wall, blocking his only way of escape._

"_G-g-g-go away!"_

"_Ah, still having trouble with the old voice, have you?" Crowley tutted and Castiel felt a wave of hatred wash over him. The demon snapped his fingers like he'd done before. "There you go. Now we can talk like proper grown-ups."_

"_I don't want to talk to you." Secretly, he did, though. He'd talk to Lucifer himself, just to experience speech without hesitation again. Feel language. _

"_You don't want to talk to anyone. Not even precious Dean. You locked him out, didn't you?"_

"_How do you know?"_

_Crowley smirked. "Oh, Cassie, I know everything. I saw you in the sewers today. Almost blew his pretty brains out, didn't you? He wanted you to. Dean's bored, you see. Bored of being stuck in that house with you. You're holding him back, Castiel."_

"_You know nothing. You can't get to me!" Castiel took a step forward, displaying as much false bravado as he could muster. _

_Crowley was in front of him in less than a second, their eyes barely an inch apart. "Do you think that, boy? Do you think all your petty charms and salt lines and traps can keep me, the King of Hell, out of your little room?"_

"_You're still a demon!"_

_Crowley leaned forward, his lips close to Castiel's ear. His voice was barely above a whisper and his words chilled Castiel to the bone. "How was that cigarette I offered you?"_

"_You … you …"_

_Crowley stepped back. "Better join me now, Castiel. Because if I have to come and find you, I'll take your voice away completely."_

_And suddenly Castiel was choking again, crumbling into a heap on the ground, unable to make a sound._

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

At breakfast, Dean acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the previous night. Castiel didn't mention that he'd seen Crowley again. It would be like admitting defeat to acknowledge that he needed Dean during the night. He didn't want to need Dean.

Sam kept him busy throughout the day, mostly in an attempt to keep him away from his brother. Around noon, he handed Castiel an ancient manuscript.

"It's Greek, but the dialect is pretty obscure. I tried, but it's giving me trouble. Could you give it a go?"

The task was something that kept him busy for most of the afternoon and evening. Sam had been right. It was difficult, but it shouldn't have given him much grief. He knew all the words and all the dialects, after all. His grammar was perfect.

"You're not getting very far, are you? Lost your touch?" Dean leaned over his shoulder to study Castiel's notes.

Castiel clenched his fists in frustration. He didn't know what was wrong with him. But none of the sentences made any sense. The translating went about as fast as his speech at this point.

He snatched his papers up and bolted up the stairs to his room.

"Hit a nerve, did I?" Dean shouted after him.

Castiel slammed the door behind him and locked it. He went to the closet and grabbed his coat, stuffing the papers in his pocket. Fuelled by anger, frustration and the desire to escape, he opened the window. The drop down wasn't too high and Dean had taught him how to fall without injuring himself. Once down, he took off at a run in the direction of the nearest town, about two miles from the salvage yard.

He remember the last time he'd decided to find a liquor store. He'd been let down by his Father and the inebriation had provided a small measure of comfort. He encountered a bar on the outskirts of town. Bobby had given him some money in case of emergency. He had a hard time rationalising the current situation to an emergency, but decided to use it anyway.

The bartender was kind and gave him what he wanted. Castiel didn't really have a preference for alcohol. It just needed to make him numb and preferable as quickly as possible. He'd needed copious amounts back when he'd been an angel, but one of the perks of humanity was that drunkenness seemed much more easily attainable.

It was past midnight and Castiel was still miserable. He considered himself a failure as a human, a mere shadow of what he'd been. And what if Crowley was right and he could be restored? It'd be worth it. Betraying Dean seemed less of a barrier than it had been in the past.

His vision started to get blurry and the hand holding the glass was shaking slightly. He felt vaguely nauseous, but had no desire to move or stop drinking. He downed the remainder of the glass and after catching the attention of the bartender, he motioned for a refill.

"Oh, no, you don't." A large hand grabbed his collar and pulled him almost off the stool. "Thanks, John, but he's had enough."

Castiel turned his head and it took him a few seconds to decipher that the man who was practically holding him up, was Bobby. "L-l-l-emme g-g-go."

"Sorry, can't understand a word of that," Bobby told him grimly, before hauling him in the direction of the exit. Some of the other customers started laughing and Castiel's face burned with shame. He struggled ineffectively, but Bobby was still much stronger. "In the car. Now."

Castiel got in clumsily and Bobby started driving. "You wanna tell me why Sheriff Mills had to call me in the middle of the night to tell me that 'one of my boys' is getting drunk in town?"

Castiel shrugged rebelliously. "N-n-n-none of your … of y-your d-d-damn … business."

Bobby actually laughed as he pulled into the scrap yard. "We'll see about that."

He parked the car and walked over to Castiel's side to pull him out. The house was silent. Sam and Dean were already asleep and Castiel was secretly grateful for it. Bobby dragged him to the bathroom and locked the both of them inside. "What was that all about? What's going on with you?"

Castiel glared at him, but remained silent.

"Fine. Have it your way." With one hand still tightly clenched around Castiel's upper arm, Bobby used his other to turn the cold shower on. He pulled the trench coat from Castiel's shoulders and let it fall to the bathroom floor and then wasted no time pushing Castiel, who was fully clothed, underneath the cold water.

"You sneak out, without telling any of us where you're going, even though you know the King of Hell is after you. You don't take any weapons. You get completely drunk, making yourself defenceless and vulnerable. And you refuse to give me a reason for being such a damn idjit!"

Castiel spluttered and gasped and struggled as the cold water pierced his clothes. It was in his mouth, in his eyes and within half a minute, he was reduced to a ball of misery, leaving all his defiance in the shower drain. "S-s-s-stop! S-s-s-stop!"

"Are you going to talk to me?"

"Y-y-yes!"

Bobby turned the shower off and the only sound in the bathroom came from the slow dripping of water from Castiel's hair and clothes. Then he freed himself from Bobby's grip and scrambled for the toilet. Everything he drank and ate that night quickly made the reverse journey. Somewhere in his mind, it registered that this was the first time he'd ever vomited. It wasn't an accomplishment to celebrate.

Bobby kneeled down next to him as Castiel expelled the contents of his stomach, and offered a gentle hand on his neck. "Good boy. Get it all out. That's it. Breathe."

The kind words were unexpected and not what he deserved. Guilt replaced numbness and Castiel broke in a mixture of vomit and tears. Bobby could do nothing more than stroke a heavy hand up and down his back and tell him: "There, there. You're alright. There, there."

But Castiel wasn't alright. He hadn't been alright in a long time. Dean almost never cried and when he did, it was certainly not like this, sobbing without dignity or restraint. Castiel didn't know how Dean prevented himself from doing so. Perhaps he didn't have a kind person to sit with him to stroke his back, like Bobby was doing right now. Perhaps, if Castiel was kinder to Dean, Dean would cry as well. Maybe it would help him too.

Eventually, Castiel regained a bit of his composure and Bobby sat him down on the lid of the toilet seat. "What's got you all upset, boy?"

Castiel motioned to his trench coat and Bobby handed it to him. He took the papers from the pocket and gave them to Bobby, who didn't understand. "C-c-c-can't read it. A-a-a-angels know … angels know all lan-lan-languages. I should … b-but I c-c-c-can't. I d-d-don't know wh-wh-what it s-s-s-says."

Bobby sighed. "I'm sorry about that, Cas. I really am. But that kind of knowledge, that isn't meant to be stored in a human brain. That doesn't mean it's gone forever, okay? You still know the grammar. You know a lot of the words. You can use dictionaries to compensate for all that angelic knowledge. And I know that sounds like a lousy option and I can't pretend I know what it feels like. But you can't let it destroy you, okay?"

Castiel nodded, the papers crumpled and wet in his hands.

"You know why I was so angry at you tonight?" Bobby confided. Castiel shook his head. "I was worried. I was worried Crowley would get to you, or something else. You're family, just like Sam and Dean are. And I can't have you doing stupid stuff like that."

"S-s-s-sorry."

"I know. It's okay. We all get to be stupid once in a while."

Bobby left the bathroom and went to get Castiel's night clothes. He slowly peeled the wet clothes off him, pulled the shirt over his head and held the pants up for him to step into. It reminded Bobby of dressing Sam or Dean back when they'd been young children. Castiel was dead tired and blindly compliant. Bobby led Castiel to his bed and was about to leave when Castiel spoke once more: "D-D-D-Dean's af-afraid I'll turn … turn into two-two-thousand-f-fourteen."

Bobby needed a moment to realize what he was talking about. Dean hadn't talked much about the time Zachariah had transported him into the future. "Are you afraid of that?"

Castiel's eyes were closed and he was almost asleep as he nodded. "H-he wasn't h-h-happy."

"You mean you weren't in 2014?" But he got no reply. Bobby sat down on the bed. "Are you happy here, Cas?"

"N-no."

And Castiel slept.

The next morning, around ten, Bobby came back to wake him. He plonked down a glass of water and a few pills on the night stand.

"You're probably going to need these."

Castiel groaned. His head felt as if it was being pierced by a thousand knives. It was even worse than it had been the last time he'd gotten drunk.

Bobby smirked down at him. "Yeah, I'm not going to lie to you, boy. You had that coming. I told Sam and Dean that you weren't feeling well. It's up to you whether you want to tell them why that is."

Castiel didn't want to tell them. When Bobby came back later that day, Castiel lied to him and said that he was feeling better. That it'd been the alcohol that had brought on the sudden melancholy. Bobby had had no choice but to believe him.

He and Dean settled into an uncomfortable truce. They were polite to each other. Polite, but distant. Dean had taken to sleeping in Castiel's room again and it helped. A little.

Castiel started translating while using dictionaries and reference texts. Sometimes even grammar overviews. It was different, but it required a certain skill he liked. He was still faster than Sam and Bobby. His innate love of language had not been tethered to his Grace. He spent more time pouring over old manuscripts and books than with the weapons in the yard. Dean had stopped pushing him to change that.

Frustration kept smouldering under the controlled façade Castiel had been constructing. Working with language and words all day slowly made him resent those who used their speech carelessly. It irritated him how Bobby shortened his words and how he used ridiculous expressions. It made him angry when he noticed that Sam chose simpler words, instead of utilizing the vocabulary Castiel knew he had. It pissed him off when Dean made grammatical errors.

The next blow-up came on a rainy day. They'd all been cooped up inside and everyone was getting testy.

"Hey, Cas!" Sam called across the table and he threw a paper in Cas' direction. "What do you think of the construction in the third line? I'm missing a verb."

"I-I-It's an …" And his voice blocked completely. That didn't happen too often anymore. "It's an …" He gasped uselessly for air, while Sam was leaning over the table in anticipation of his solution. He bought himself a bit more time by repeating the first part, which was fluent now. "It's an …" And all of a sudden, he was tired of it. He grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper, scribbled down '_It's an ablative absolute with a silent participle of 'esse'_'.

He then pushed it to Sam, who read the note and said: "Yeah, yeah, you're right. That fits. Thanks, Cas."

It was both a defeat and a victory. Over the past months, he'd refrained from writing his thoughts and replies down on paper. He wanted to beat this stutter, he wanted to speak with Jimmy Novak's voice that was now his own. Giving in to the temptation of writing his answers down, was a loss. It was like giving up.

On the other hand, the relief it brought quickly overshadowed any disappointment. He'd given a complete reply. Nicely phrased. Exactly like Sam needed it. In less time than it would've taken if he'd spoken it.

The rest of the day, he kept the notebook at the ready. A pen resided permanently in his pocket. By the time he went to bed that night, Bobby had received eight notes, Sam nine and Dean thirteen. They'd been surprised by his sudden change in communication, but his new-found fluency placated them. He didn't speak again that day.

"So is this it now?" Dean asked as they were lying shoulder to shoulder in Castiel's bed. "Just the notes, no words?"

Castiel nodded.

"Pity. I like your voice, you know."

Castiel didn't have the paper to apologize.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 5

_There's rhythm in sentences, even if they're not poetry. Small words, tiny particles that don't mean anything by themselves, but complete the innate rhythm of language. Some people feel it and become rhetoricians. Others capture it and are called writers. Others still admire it, because they notice. They are the true lovers of language._

Everything seemed to get better when Castiel started using paper and a pen to express himself. His friendship with Dean, after being under attack by small grievances and irritation, started to repair and they could laugh again together, albeit Castiel without sound. It was strange how easily he made the transition from speech and all it entailed, to total silence.

Bobby was the only one who really minded that Castiel had completely given himself to notes for his thoughts. He kept encouraging Castiel to try again, to speak just a little bit, but Castiel was stubborn and unwavering in his refusal.

Sam tried as well, but his efforts were half-hearted. He wanted Castiel to like him and that prevented him from really pushing his friend. Dean didn't even try. He enjoyed the new Castiel, the Castiel who sometimes smiled and seemed happier and better adjusted. His notes gave him freedom. With a bit of paper in hand, he could enter shops or a library and get what he wanted without a struggle.

The only thing that bothered Dean slightly, was the completeness of Castiel's silence. He not only refused to speak, but also stopped laughing out loud, stopped groaning, whimpering and even the small noises he made in his sleep when he was about to have a nightmare, completely ceased. It made the dreams harder to spot for Dean and several times, he'd been too late in waking him.

As the days passed, Dean and Castiel continued to grow closer. Dean and Sam even took Castiel to a bar one night, after a successful hunt on a Wendigo. Bobby had warned him in private about drinking too much and Castiel had promised not to repeat the events of a few weeks ago.

The bar was pretty crowded on a Saturday night. Dean got Castiel a beer, while Sam was chatting to a girl at a nearby table. Castiel had brought his notepad and was able to have a conversation with Dean that way. When the pool table became available, Dean pulled Castiel to his feet.

"Come on, Cas. It's about time I taught you this."

At that moment, a woman sauntered up to Dean. She placed a hand ostentatiously on Dean's shoulder. Castiel immediately disliked her, but he recognized that by human standards, she could be considered attractive.

"You're working with Bobby Singer, right? You guys fixed my car up last week. How about I buy you a drink to thank you for that?"

Dean looked back and forth between the girl and Castiel. Castiel grabbed his notepad and scribbled: _"Go. I'll be fine. I'll get another drink."_

Dean read it and looked the woman in the eye. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but I was just about to start a game with my friend here." He indicated Castiel and then the pool table.

The woman's smile faltered a little. "Sure! I understand. Shall I catch you later then?"

"Maybe."

And with that, Dean turned his back towards her and started explaining the game to Castiel. Castiel was barely listening. The rejection had been obvious to all three of them. He wondered why Dean had done it. Dean almost never turned down women.

It turned out that Castiel wasn't very good at pool. They played two disastrous games, before deciding to leave around midnight.

"_You sure you don't want to find that woman? I don't mind."_, Castiel wrote when they were going towards the exit.

"No, I'm good, Cas."

"_Are you ill?"_

That earned him a playful shove. "No, I'm not ill! Just got all the company I need, okay?"

"_Okay."_

"Thank you."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

They hadn't gone back to the bar after that. Dean decided it was better to simply raid Bobby's liquor cabinet and retreat to the roof. Castiel liked the roof, even though Bobby didn't want him to be on it, because 'you're an idjit and if ya break your neck, I'm going to be the one to have to deal with that'. They had ignored his protestations.

Castiel's preference towards the roof stemmed from his realization that everything in human life was very low. Bobby didn't live near mountains, so the last time he'd taken in an impressive view, was back when he still had his wings and could easily soar above the landscape. Being on the roof felt oddly natural. Being on the roof with Dean, a bottle of liquor and a few blankets, was closer to heaven than he had been in a long while.

"Cas, have you never wanted to kiss a girl? You kissed Meg, almost a year ago."

Castiel stilled. He knew Dean liked to talk when he'd been drinking and they'd spoken about a great deal of subjects on the roof, but he hadn't expected this question. _"Kissing her was a mistake."_

Dean clicked on a small flashlight he was carrying and read the note. "You didn't like it?"

"_No."_

"And you never want to find another girl? Because we could try, you know, if you wanted to."

"_I don't want to."_

"Okay," Dean said and Castiel thought he sounded somehow cheerful. "That's alright. No problem."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"_You haven't told him, have you, Cassie-boy?" Crowley scoffed and a cruel smile played around his lips. "You haven't told Dean that you don't want to kiss girls, because you don't like girls. You like boys and you like just one particular boy."_

"_Shut up!" Castiel launched himself at Crowley, but the demon flicked his wrist and Castiel was thrown against the wall and held there by an invisible force. _

_Crowley approached him. "Dean. You like Dean and if he knew, he'd kick you out of his house. It's unnatural, Castiel. You failed as an angel and now you fail as a human."_

_Castiel struggled in vain to free himself. _

"_Perhaps I should send a message," Crowley mused. "You still haven't joined me and it's taking too long. Maybe I should just take Dean Winchester and show you what happens if you disobey me."_

"_No!"_

"Cas, wake up! Cas!" Dean was shaking him. "Jeez, man, sorry. You're so damn quiet lately, it's hard to tell when you're dreaming. You're safe. Crowley isn't here, okay?" Dean turned the light on and gave Castiel his pen and paper.

"_He wants you. He's coming after you. I should get out of here. You should hide. Crowley-"_

Dean wrenched the pen from his fingers. "You're not going anywhere and I'm not going anywhere. He can't get to you, Cas. He's never gotten to you." He ran a hand through Castiel's damp hair. "God, you're soaking wet. Here, lemme get you another shirt." He got out of the bed and returned with a towel and a clean shirt.

Castiel's hands trembled as he dried off the sweat and changed his clothes. Dean saw it. "Try to relax, Cas. If you stay upset, he's winning. But if you shrug this off and go back to sleep, you'll take away any power he has."

The notepad went back on the nightstand and the room became dark again. Castiel turned on his left side, his face towards the wall. Dean did the same and seconds later, Castiel felt his body press up against him, Dean's arm looped casually around Castiel's waist. They'd never lain like this before. Even Castiel, with his limited knowledge of human life and customs, knew instinctively that they weren't supposed to. It was strange how it didn't feel strange at all.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"Cas, do you think there's still a God?"

Castiel's pen hesitated above the paper. He remembered the voice that told him to let go of his Grace, when Raphael had been trying to steal it. He remembered how his body had been unmarred, despite the mutilations he'd forced upon it. "_Maybe_."

"Okay."

"_If there is a God, do you think he'll accept me into Heaven when I die?_"

"Yes," Dean said confidently. "Yes, I'm sure of that. Heaven is made for people like you, Cas."

"_Okay_." Then, after a moment of thinking: "_I won't stay there if you won't come. I'll leave._"

"I guess they'll have to take me too then?" Dean sounded amused.

"_Yes, they do_."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Their next hunt was good old-fashioned ghost and Dean was excited. It wasn't a straightforward salt-and-burn, because the person who had become the ghost, had been cremated. He was tethered to several different houses, capable of switching between them through the pipes that connected them. Their plan was to lure the ghost into one of the houses that had been abandoned and once it was there, burn the place down, in order to get rid of the ghost by destroying the location it haunted.

"So, apparently, this guy, Levi Danielson, was a builder of all these houses," Sam explained in the car. "He was shot through the head in one of them, just days before the buyers were scheduled to move in. They never found the shooter, but his partner was suspected of the crime. The police alleged he killed him over a money dispute, but they never found the gun and they couldn't prove it."

"Right," Dean said, parking the Impala in front of the neglected house. It was almost night and in the dim light, it looked empty and haunted. He got out and started distributing shotguns loaded with rock salt. "So we get in, make sure the ghost is there, get the hell out again and torch the place."

"Sounds simple enough," Bobby said gruffly. "Come on then, let's not take all night."

The front door was made of mouldy wood and Sam easily kicked it in. Castiel followed him, Bobby and Dean bringing up the rear. They split up almost immediately. Castiel had more experience now and their objective was relatively easy. After about five minutes, he heard a gunshot upstairs.

"Got him, guys!" Sam's voice. "Get out!"

Castiel turned on his heels and suddenly there were hands around his neck. He struggled and got thrown against the wall for his efforts. His head made a sickening thud against the bricks and he landed painfully on his back. The ghost was approaching and there was nothing Castiel could do. A swift kick in the ribs, followed by another one and he curled up, protecting his face with his hands.

Another gunshot and the ghost disappeared.

"Cas!" Dean was at his side in an instant, though Castiel could only see a hazy outline. Dean's hands were in his hair, brushing it away to see the wound above Castiel's temple that was bleeding profusely. "What else hurts, Cas? What else hurts?"

Castiel pointed to his ribs and Dean's hands were sliding under his shirt, putting pressure on each of his ribs to check whether they were broken.

"What's going on?" Bobby and Sam had arrived.

"Another ghost," Dean said hurriedly. "He got Cas. Head wound, but I don't think his ribs are broken. We need to get out of here."

For one terrible moment, Castiel thought they were going to leave him there.

"Alright, I think we can move him then," Bobby said. "Sam, get his legs."

And then he was being carried out of the house. From a distance, he saw Bobby lighting the house on fire. He saw the house go up in flames. Then he saw the inside of the Impala. Then nothing at all.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

He woke in his own room. His head hurt. Dean was there again, looking anxious and pale.

"Cas, are you dizzy?"

Castiel thought and gingerly moved his head. He wasn't. Moving hurt, though and he resolved not to do it again. Instead, he motioned at Dean with his right hand for a pen and paper.

"I haven't got anything here, sorry," Dean replied. "Raise your right hand for 'yes' and your left hand for 'no'."

Castiel raised his left hand.

"Okay, not dizzy. Nauseous?"

The left hand again.

"Good." Dean produced a flashlight. "I'm going to check your eyes now. Please look into the light." He shone the light in his right eye, then his left. "Your pupils are reacting. That's good news, Cas. I'm not a doctor, but I don't think you have a concussion."

Castiel wasn't sure what exactly a concussion was, but not having one sounded like good news indeed.

"Do you know your name?"

Right hand.

"'Where you are?"

Right hand.

"That my name is Sam?"

Left hand and confused expression.

"Alright, just checking. It's much easier when people talk during this, you know. We've bandaged your head wound. It wasn't deep, but those things always bleed a lot. It should be fine."

Castiel reached up to check. He felt the bandage that went around his head.

"I'm going to check your ribs now to make sure they aren't broken. I already did it back at the house, I know, but I was in a hurry then, so I might have missed something."

Dean drew the blankets back and lifted Castiel's shirt, exposing his ribs. Castiel shivered slightly. Every breath was accompanied by a stabbing pain. If he breathed shallowly, it was a bit better. Then he felt Dean's fingers, first moving his arms away, then starting just below his armpit, carefully tracing the outline of his ribs. He was much more acutely aware of Dean's touch on his bare skin this time. No human had ever touched him this deliberately and intimately. It made him feel vulnerable and small. Once again, it became painfully clear that he wasn't an angel anymore. The pain only illustrated further. He noticed Dean's face just above his chest, focused completely on his task,. Dean moved lower, feeling rib after rib. It all hurt, but nothing moved or stung.

Dean reached the final, lowest ribs. They were fine as well. Dean, however, didn't remove his hands He placed them gently on Castie's sides.. They were warm and comforting on his body. "Your ribs aren't broken. Bruised, I imagine, and it'll hurt for a couple of weeks, but everything should heal completely. There was a second ghost. He was the son of the builder who died. Apparently, he committed suicide after his father was murdered. Both of them haunted the building. Why didn't you yell for help, Cas? Did you voice block?"

Castiel looked away in shame. He knew Dean was going to be angry.

Realization came slowly and the warm hands were removed and his shirt tucked back down. "You didn't even try, did you? Jesus, Cas, you could have died! We were almost outside already! Did you want that? Do you want to die?"

Castiel raised his left hand immediately and, despite Dean's protestations, started shaking his head as vigorously as he dared. Dean got up and went to get a piece of paper and a pen from Sam's room. He handed the items to Castiel.

"_The ghost surprised me. I did not think about speaking."_

"That could've been very dangerous, you know that?" Dean waited for Castiel's guilty nod. "I'm aware you don't like speaking," He continued wearily. "But it should still be an option in emergencies."

"_Sorry."_

"I'm glad you're okay," Dean told him softly, freeing a few strands of hair that had been trapped underneath the bandage on Castiel's head.

Castiel was tired and Dean's hand in his hair was a luxury. Again, he recognized that this wasn't appropriate, wasn't normal. Especially not when Dean lay down next him and his lips were pressing in Castiel's hair, while one of Dean's hands rested heavily on his hip. Castiel closed his eyes. His hand found Dean's shirt and he twisted his fingers in it. Sleep came quickly.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 6

_You used to think that spoken language was so much more powerful than the written word. You've now concluded that isn't always the case. Anger is stronger when shouted. Contempt is better on paper. You haven't made your mind up about apologies yet, but you lean towards thinking they should be whispered with contrition. Perhaps your inability to do so means you aren't entitled to forgiveness._

Castiel was woken by shouting. The shouting wasn't happening near him, but downstairs. He could hear Dean's voice quite clearly.

"You should have known this, Sam! You should've known there were two!"

"Look, I wasn't the only one doing research!" Sam's voice. "Any of you could've noticed it! Besides, you were supposed to have his back."

"I _did_ have his back!" Dean shouted. "I only stopped having his back when _you _told us you _had_ the damn ghost!"

"Look, we all screwed up here," Bobby interjected. "In the research, in covering each other and especially, in taking Cas along in the first place. I shouldn't have let him."

Castiel frowned. Bobby's words stung and felt like an insult. Dean apparently took them the same way. "What do you mean? He's a good hunter, I didn't hesitate taking him on the hunt."

"I know he's a good hunter," Bobby said in a placating manner. Castiel had to strain to hear him now that they'd stopped yelling. "But he's doesn't talk. He doesn't call for help. I hoped he would do when he was in real trouble, but he didn't. We can't let this go on, guys."

Castiel tilted his head and attempted to catch more of the conversation, but evidently Bobby, Sam and Dean had moved into a different room and he wasn't able to hear them anymore. Bobby's words had sounded ominous, though. He lay back down and winced at the pain in his ribs.

With hindsight, it seemed stupid to him that he hadn't called for help. He'd played the moment back in his head countless times, but he couldn't recall an instant in which he'd ever considered opening his mouth. There had just been total panic and absolute reliance on survival instincts. Speaking wasn't among those instincts anymore. It should've worried him, but it didn't. He was done with talking. He had started to resent it and his failure to eject even a word when in mortal peril therefore seemed like a victory over language to Castiel.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Bobby came to visit him in the afternoon. He changed the bandage and checked the wound, telling Castiel it looked good. He inquired about his ribs and whether he needed to get some more painkillers. Castiel didn't want any.

After all these preliminaries, Bobby grabbed a chair and sat down next to the bed.

"Got the feeling we need to talk about a few things, Cas." The old hunter leaned forward and interlaced his hands.

Castiel attempted to sit up and Bobby rearranged the pillow for him to make it as comfortable as possible. Castiel had the idea he wasn't going to like this conversation.

"You didn't call for help." It wasn't a question. "You could've died, you know that?"

Castiel nodded. The shame he'd felt when talking to Dean earlier had lessened considerably.

"You need to start talking again," Bobby ordered, while Castiel looked at him incredulously. "This is too dangerous. And a damn shame as well, because you _can_ speak. We can work on it. We can even try a doctor, hell, maybe we should've from the start. But you need to talk."

Castiel shook his head vigorously. He motioned for pen and paper.

"Sorry," Bobby had the grace to be slightly apologetic about it. "No more writing stuff down. I won't read the notes. Neither will Sam and Dean. It's for your own good, kid?"

Castiel was furious. He motioned for pen and paper again, desperately, but Bobby merely shook his head. It was an inarticulate fury that came over Castiel. He wasn't able to launch it into words or even punches. He reacted the only way he could think of. He turned his back to Bobby, his face to the wall, and dissolved into complete silence, tears of rage in his eyes.

"Cas?" Bobby realized he wasn't going to get an answer. He got up and placed a hand on Castiel's tense shoulder. "Get some rest, son. It's gonna be fine. You'll see."

Castiel shrugged him off.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Dean came a couple of hours later. In the meantime, Castiel had found a scrap of paper and a pencil in one of the drawers in his nightstand and he'd prepared a note for Dean. In it, he apologized for his actions and promised to be better in the future. But it also stated that he would do it without speaking.

When Dean came in and sat at the end of Castiel's bed, Castiel tried to hand him his note. Dean took it, but put it down next to him without reading.

"Bobby talked to us too," he said softly. "And I agree with him. I'm sorry, I can't read this." He indicated the piece of paper. "Cas, I'd be letting you down if I didn't try to get you to talk. I don't want this to kill you. I want it to get better."

Castiel turned back to the wall again, feeling betrayed and desperate. He had expected that Dean would stick with him, but apparently, his friend had concluded that he was of no use to him without his voice. The tears he'd roughly wiped away when Bobby had left, started threatening him again. He felt Dean move on the bed and then Dean was lying behind him, but not touching him. He could hear him breathing, in and out, in a steady rhythm. Part of wished to push him away, but he couldn't make himself do it. Dean didn't leave until Castiel was fast asleep.

Castiel didn't stop trying with the notes. The next day, he was ready to get out of bed and to begin walking around. He guarded his notebook and pen with his life and at every question asked, he responded with a lengthy written answer, which he then tried to hand to the appropriate person. Bobby, Sam and Dean all refused to take them. Bobby resolutely, Sam apologetically, Dean regretfully.

In the week that followed, it quickly became frustrating for everyone involved. Castiel directed most of his anger towards Dean. While he was able to remain politely distant to Sam and Bobby, to Dean he became outright cold and hostile. Perhaps this was influenced by the fact that Dean tried the most to involve Castiel in conversations and decision making, but only succeeded in making it painfully obvious that Castiel had virtually no means of communication left.

"Cas, I'm going out for groceries, do you want anything?"

Castiel came forward and grabbed the shopping list Dean had been composing. Bobby took it from him and handed it back to Dean. "No writing. We've talked about this. If you want something, you can use your voice and ask for it."

Castiel looked pleadingly at Dean, willing him to understand that for such a tiny thing, he could surely make an exception. Dean just put the list in his pocket without another word. In a sudden fit of anger, Castiel grabbed a pen, took Dean's hand and wrote in large capital letters on the back: "_MILK_". Apart from blue lines, the pen left red scratches from the force with which Castiel had used it.

Dean didn't react and Castiel almost regretted that. He'd have welcomed a punch, anything other than the calmness Dean projected at every one of Castiel's outbursts. Dean simply grabbed his wallet and left. That evening, there were three new packs of milk in the fridge.

"Bobby, I can't do this anymore."

Castiel stopped dead in his tracks outside Bobby's study. The door was closed, but he could hear Dean's voice quite clearly inside.

"Cas is miserable, hell_, I'm_ miserable. He felt so much better when he communicated through the notes. I don't know, but we might be making a mistake here by taking that away. I told you a bit about 2014, right?" There was a silence and Castiel presumed Bobby nodded. "Well, Cas there was a wreck. He was drinking, doing drugs, smoking God-knows-what. He wasn't Cas anymore. And I talked to him, told him I was going to let this happen to him if I could help it. He just laughed, I know he didn't believe me. But I promised him that, Bobby. I promised that I was going to make him happy and he _isn't_."

"Do you think he'll be happy if you never let him communicate with his voice again?" It wasn't a rhetorical question, Bobby genuinely wanted to know.

"I don't know," Dean sighed. "I hate seeing him this way. I guess you're right, I should keep it up a little longer. It's just a shame, you know. He was so close. Really, he was so damn close to being so damn _happy_."

"It's not polite to eavesdrop."

Castiel whirled around to see Sam standing there, looking stern. He suddenly felt guilty for listening in.

"Dean just wants the best for you and you know it," Sam told him and Castiel had the idea that he was being scolded. "This is hard for him too. You don't need to be cruel to him."

Guilt was replaced by a deep sense of shame. He heard Sam leave as he stared at the floor. Sam was right. Dean didn't deserve this.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Their relationship improved after that. Castiel allowed Dean to be close to him again at night and they were able to have conversations in which Dean extrapolated Castiel's part by looks and gestures alone. What was left of Castiel's frustration was now mostly directed at Bobby, whom he saw as the instigator of the whole problem.

One day, when Sam and Dean were out on a run together (Castiel's ribs still hurt too much to join them), he heard music coming from Bobby's study. He'd listened to music before, of course, but it had mostly been constant exposure to Dean's classic rock or Sam's slightly more modern bands. Sometimes, during his work in the salvage yard, Bobby listened to a radio station that played old Country music. Castiel had never given music too much thought. There were some songs he liked and wanted to play over and over, until Dean was ready to tear his hair out at the repetition. He sometimes nicked Sam's iPod when he was going for a run, but it usually took him at least an hour to get it working properly and to find the button that endlessly repeated a certain song for him. He'd tried asking Sam about it, but didn't appreciate the entire lecture of iPod mechanics and iPod care that usually followed.

The music coming from Bobby's study was different. It was quite unlike anything he'd ever heard and it reminded him of the songs of the Holy Host. He felt the music somewhere near his heart, while he usually only felt songs in the tapping of his fingers or the bouncing of his foot. Slowly, he opened the door. Bobby had been listening with his eyes closed, but he opened them as he heard Castiel enter.

"I thought you'd gone with Sam and Dean." Bobby sounded a bit embarrassed. "D'you like it?"

Castiel nodded and was pleasantly surprised when Bobby didn't demand a verbal answer like he'd done so much lately.

"It's classical music," Bobby explained. "Not my thing, really. Don't know much about it, except that this is Mozart. My wife listened to this. These are her CD's. I'm not even sure I like 'em. I just listen to 'em. Did Dean tell you about her, about my wife?"

Castiel nodded again.

"You can sit down, if you want."

Castiel did. Bobby closed his eyes again and Castiel followed his example. The music transcended everything. Frustration, anger, awkwardness, silence. It all left. Castiel loved it.

The spell was broken when they heard Sam and Dean come back. Bobby quickly jumped up and turned the CD off. Castiel got up as well. For the first time in a long while, he actually wanted to use his voice to thank Bobby for including him and introducing him to this. But the step was still too great and he left in silence.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Ever since the incident with the milk, Dean had decided it was easier to take Castiel along while shopping. Castiel didn't mind. He was still in, what Dean called, 'the phase of wanting to try every damn thing', so the supermarket was a bit of a paradise for him and he spent the better part of an hour lobbing the most exotic articles (or, in Dean's words, 'crimes against food') in the cart Dean was pushing.

They were on the way back to the Impala, carrying two full bags each.

"I'm telling you, Cas, banana and apple shouldn't be mixed in one drink. It's disgusting! I wouldn't feed it to a demon! Or perhaps I would, if I was feeling especially cruel." He turned to look at Castiel, expecting to see an exasperated expression on his face, but Castiel wasn't there. He was standing ten feet behind Dean, staring at a poster stuck to a lamp post.

Dean joined him. "What's that then?"

Castiel pointed at the large letters on the head of the poster.

Dean read out loud: " '_Benjamin Britten's War Requiem_'. It's a classical concert." He peered at the bottom of the poster. "This weekend in a local church. What about it, Cas?"

Castiel pointed at himself, then at Dean, then at the poster.

"You want to go there?" Dean said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. "I didn't know you were into that sort of thing. To each his own, I guess. Sure, I'll drive you, if you want."

Castiel's expression became annoyed. He pointed more vigorously at Dean and then at the poster.

"You want me to come?" Dean guessed. "I don't know about that, Cas. It's not my sort of thing. You know the music I like."

Castiel gave him a disappointed look and held up his index finger as if to say: "Just this once!"

Dean hesitated. "Alright, fine. I'll go. But I can't promise you I'll like it! I can't even promise you I'll stay awake. I'll try, though."

Castiel's smile was radiant. He put his shopping bags down and grabbed the edges of the poster, gently prying it loose from the lamp post.

"Ehm, Cas? I don't think you're supposed to take those."

Castiel ignored him. He neatly folded the sheet in half and put it in his pocket. Then he picked up the shopping again and led the way to the car.

Later that day, the poster appeared on Bobby's desk with the carefully scribbled note: "_Dean and I will be attending this concert. Would you like to join us?_"

The next Saturday, Castiel dressed with care. He was wearing his best suit and cleaned his shoes before he put them on. His hand hesitated between a black tie and the old blue one that had been Jimmy Novak's. He settled on the latter and hung it loosely around his neck. He'd have to ask Dean to fix it for him later.

A soft knock on the door and Bobby entered. He leaned casually against the door post and took in Castiel's appearance. "Thanks for inviting me, Cas, but I think it's enough for me to just listen to it at home."

Castiel nodded. He understood. The music was something precious and for Bobby, had to remain inviolate.

"Do you know how to tie that thing?" Bobby asked, pointing at the blue tie.

Castiel shook his head. Bobby walked up to him and positioned him in front of the mirror. "Take the two ends in your hands. Long end on the left. That's it. Now cross it underneath the blue end. Okay, now cross the long end over the short one back to the left. Place your right hand on the knot. See the opening there? Get the long end to go underneath it and through that opening. That's it! Carefully slide it up now. Perfect." He placed a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Have fun, lad."

Dean looked increasingly uncomfortable as they approached the church. He tugged his tie a little downwards, as if he was hot, and paused when they had almost reached the entrance.

"I don't know about this, Cas," He began hesitantly as he took in the people queuing for tickets. "Not sure this is my kind of crowd."

Castiel had expected and prepared for this. He grabbed Dean's hand and tugged him into the church garden, a little away from the actual entrance. They walked along a path until they came upon a deserted, quiet cemetery. There was no-one else in sight and the noise of the crowd faded to a murmur in the background. Wild roses were blooming on and over the graves and the whole scene was quite stunning in the setting sun. Castiel halted, waited until Dean did the same and then handed him a note.

"I'm not supposed to read this," Dean protested, but he still took the piece of paper. "Bobby would kill me if he knew." He unfolded it.

"_You need not feel afraid or uncomfortable in this place, Dean. The stench of Hell does not cling to you. It never has. Your soul is pure and the church would be honoured to receive you. _I_ would be honoured to take you with me._"

Castiel studied his friend carefully while he read. He saw Dean swallow when he read the last words. Then Dean looked up and Castiel noticed that they were standing too close together again. It didn't matter. A second later, the distance was closed completely and Castiel's lips met Dean's. It started gently, calmly, until their kiss deepened in desperation. Castiel was validating himself as human and perhaps Dean was doing the same for himself. A former angel and a former resident of Hell found each other in the cemetery of a church. Castiel wondered whether it would be God or Lucifer that approved of them.

They broke apart and Castiel felt Dean's breath on his face. They kissed again, this time softly, as if their first kiss had been a battle, but they had now either won or lost and it didn't matter which one it was.

Dean's words were barely above a whisper. "Let's go inside."

Castiel watched the orchestra intently. The music re-united death and life, suffering and beauty. It explored war and peace and heaven and mercy and meaning. When the choir sang in Latin, Castiel mouthed the words along without sound. He tasted them. When it was English, he closed his eyes and listened.

He felt Dean watching him throughout the piece. Dean watched him as Castiel relived the war in Heaven, the killing of his brothers and the feud that tore his family apart. He saw it when the desperation of the music took Castiel back to the moment he lost his Grace and later on, comforted him as it showed the possibility of life after death. In the end, it was music about the futility of war and with that, perhaps the importance of art. Castiel lost himself in it.

Dean was there to help him find himself again, as he had been from the very first day they'd met. In their bedroom, in the night, Castiel became fully human, fully vulnerable and Dean, who had always been such, but never wished to acknowledge it, accepted it for the both of them. They knew each other's souls. Castiel had rebuilt Dean's after he pulled him out of hell and Dean had moulded Castiel's after he'd lost his wings. Honouring the same symmetry, they explored every inch of each other's bodies.

They slept as they always had. Side by side, touching, connected, peaceful. Nothing and everything had changed, but neither of them feared the novelty.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 7

_Elegant and sophisticated communication is what separates human beings from other animals. Exclusion from communication for any reason – speech difficulty, shyness, the simple problem or gift of being different – irrevocably leads to isolation. Some people proclaim they don't mind isolation. That they crave being alone. They lie._

_Everyone longs for something. Love, money, comfort, satisfaction, acceptance, happiness, absence of fear. Others long for it to last or never change. Longing and loss are essential parts of life. Almost as essential as communication. _

They were on the roof together. The sun was setting, but it was pleasantly warm. Castiel was wearing a t-shirt, enjoying the feeling of the material of the roof under his bare arms as he lay on his back. They hadn't spoken much that night.

"It doesn't matter," Dean said suddenly and definitively. "It doesn't matter. Even if you'll never speak again, it won't change anything for me, Cas. It would never change … this. You know that, right?"

Castiel grabbed Dean's hand and squeezed it.

"Good," Dean nodded, his eyes on the sky and not on Castiel. "Good. Because we'll find a way. I'll read your thoughts or something. Telepathy. Can't be that hard. Or we'll learn sign language. We could drive Bobby and Sam crazy with that. Perhaps smoke signals."

Castiel cast him a dubious look.

"Alright, maybe not smoke signals," Dean admitted. "That would become chaotic. But you get the idea. We don't need speech. We don't need perfection."

Another squeeze of his hand.

"Glad you agree."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Castiel didn't know what to call it. He didn't like the word 'relationship'. None of the ordinary words were good enough. Perhaps a 'connection'. He smirked to himself. 'A profound bond'. He remembered saying that to Dean once. His smile widened as he remembered Dean's embarrassment.

There hadn't been any serious arguments. It was odd, Castiel thought, how much that worried him. It was because over the past few years, most of the communication between him and Dean had been based on rifts and disagreements. Everything with Dean was always difficult and unexpected. It had intrigued Castiel when they'd first met. Slowly, however, he had gotten used to the fact that they were perfectly capable of existing in relative peace. Perhaps he got used to it too much.

"Guys, we gotta go!" Bobby was yelling through the house. "A couple of vamps were spotted about 30 miles from here. Hunters have been after 'em for years and we might have a chance to finally gank them."

Castiel came bolting down the stairs. The head wound had healed nicely and had left only the faintest of scars, not perceptible to anyone who didn't know about it. His ribs only bothered him in the morning, after he'd slept in the same position for too long. He felt ready to get back into hunting.

He came downstairs to find the kitchen table packed full of weapons, mostly long and sharp blades. Castiel grabbed one and tested the weight of it in his hands.

"Alright, Cas, it's early still, so I we'll probably be back around eight tonight, okay?"

Castiel froze, blade still in his hand as he stared at Bobby.

Bobby looked up to see Castiel's shock and sighed. "We can't take you on hunts anymore. You must've realized that. If you're not gonna talk, you're not gonna be safe out there. We won't take that risk."

Cold fury washed over Castiel. He turned to Dean, ignoring Bobby completely, and sent him a pleading look. His grip tightened around the blade he was still holding.

It was hard for Dean to reply. "I'm sorry, Cas, but he's right. Vamps are dangerous." For a moment, it seemed as if he wanted to say something else, but then, as if he feared it would reveal too much of him, he swallowed his words and said: "I'm sorry."

Castiel clenched his fists. The rage built up inside him and he wasn't sure whether it was because he couldn't join them on the hunt or because Dean still locked the door whenever he came to Castiel's room and insisted on sneaking out in the morning when the others couldn't see him. There was anger in him and it was stronger than courage or determination.

"F-f-f-fuck you!" The words had barely left his mouth when Castiel was already running. Out the door, through the yard, away from the house, leavening the most deafening silence in his wake.

"Well," Dean said, after almost a full minute, with false cheer that did not succeed in masking his pain. "At least he spoke."

Castiel ran for an hour, faster than he'd ever ran before. When he stopped, his knees buckled and he hit the dirt. The pain in his ribs was back and he was whimpering in the mud. It was a defeat. One of the most horrible kind. He'd not only belied his own beliefs by giving in to speech, but he'd soiled his mouth with foul language and driven his best friend away.

Language had betrayed him or perhaps he'd betrayed language. He'd wielded the words in anger. He made himself get up. Self-pity was unjustified. After catching his breath, he half-ran, half-walked back the house. The first thing he noticed was that the Impala was gone. A heavy weight settled in his stomach. His friends had gone on a dangerous mission and instead of wishing them good luck and bidding them to be careful, he'd told Dean to fuck off.

He spent the afternoon walking around aimlessly, wracked with guilt and with the nerves building slowly. He checked several times whether his watch was still working properly. Time seemed to be at a standstill. Around six o'clock, he went into the kitchen and searched the fridge for something to eat. Sam had taught him how to cook a few basic meals. Castiel tended to be a bit forgetful in the kitchen, but was not above eating everything he'd created, be it raw or blackened. Dean reckoned they had to protect him from himself and usually insisted on remaining in the kitchen to check on things while Castiel was creating something.

He quickly decided he wasn't hungry. As a form of self-punishment, he grabbed a random book from Bobby's library, opened it and attempted to read the first line out loud. His voice blocked completely and he threw it across the room.

At seven o'clock, he went to sit on the porch. He didn't take a coat.

Eight o'clock came and went. Castiel briefly went inside to look for his cell phone. He hadn't used it in months, but he still knew how to turn it on. He had no messages. In spite of that, he put it in front of him and watched it, not sure whether he wanted it to ring or not.

At eight thirty, he was a nervous wreck. He was pacing up and down the porch, wringing his hands, clenching his fists, running his fingers through his hair over and over again.

At eight forty-five, he got up and went into the salvage yard. He found a car that looked relatively decent, got in and attempted to start it by connecting some wires the way he'd seen Dean do many times before. He'd never learned how to drive, but this was an emergency. He tried for fifteen minutes straight. Once, he got a spark, but didn't succeed in starting the car. He got out again and kicked the door in frustration.

He walked back to the house. Wild ideas were running through his head. Perhaps he should start running in the direction the vamps were sighted. Maybe there was something he could do. He also briefly considered finding a crossroads and making a deal to ensure Dean's safety. Even Crowley's name crossed his mind more than once.

At nine fifteen, he heard the distant rumble of a car engine. Castiel sprang up and jogged in the direction of the noise. The head lamps of the Impala nearly blinded him and the car stopped with the bumper only inches from his knees.

Castiel ran to the door of the driver and wrenched it open. There was Dean. Safe and sound and weary and whole and warm. Castiel surrendered himself to his arms, trembling slightly, exuding apologies in all but language. Dean held him without anger or reprehension. Then he pushed Castiel away from him just a little, grabbed his chin and placed a kiss on his lips. After that, Castiel was back in his arms again, his forehead on Dean's shoulder. Dean smelt of blood and sweat and dirt. Castiel didn't care.

Bobby and Sam saw it without judgement, without surprise, as they unloaded the car. All of them were unharmed, the hunt had just taken longer than anticipated. When they walked towards the house, Bobby took a hold of Castiel's arm and held him back, while Sam and Dean went inside.

"You spoke," Bobby said simply. Castiel averted his eyes and Bobby gave his arm a shake to get his attention. "You spoke and it wasn't very nice." Castiel bit his lip at the rebuke and before he knew it, Bobby cuffed hard him around the ears. He looked up in utter shock. "That was for being unreasonable and impulsive. This," He raised his hand again and Castiel flinched in his advance, but Bobby just ruffled his hair gently, "is for speaking in the first place. Please don't give it up. Come on, let's go inside, idjit. I'm sure you've been freezing on this porch for long enough now."

A vague smile played around Castiel's lips. His left ear glowed and he was sure Dean would see it and laugh at him for it. Never mind. He'd deserved that one.

They were on the roof again and silence reigned. They listened to the birds humming in the trees, saw the sun setting in the distance. It had been a week since the vampire hunt. Castiel hadn't spoken since then and there had been little pressure. Everyone seemed to expect him to get there on his own now. It was nice.

"D-D-Dean."

The silence changed dramatically. Unbelief, anticipation, joy. Dean seemed to hold his breath.

"Yeah, Cas?" His voice sounded a little rough.

"D-Dean."

It wasn't a question and Dean realized that now. His hand found Castiel's and he squeezed. "I missed that."

"M-me … too."

The weeks of silence had taken their toll on Castiel's fluency. When he tentatively started speaking again, his stutter was worse than it had been before. It was disheartening for Castiel and it took a massive amount of encouragement from Dean, Sam and Bobby to stop him from giving it up again immediately.

"Maybe we should think about going to a doctor," Dean tried carefully as they were walking through town on the way to the library.

" N-n-n-no."

"Why not? It isn't a sign of weakness to ask for help, you know!"

Castiel snorted. "W-w-w-when was ... the-the-the last time y-you asked f-f-for help?"

"Point taken," Dean sighed. "But I'm far from the perfect role model, Cas. You should know that by now."

"I l-l-like you."

"No changing the subject."

They entered the library. Castiel saw Dean shudder in an exaggerated manner as he saw all the shelves. They quickly made their way to the section that held books in ancient languages. Dean sighed, but Castiel pointedly ignored him and tried his best to find the oldest book in the area.

"Hey Cas, aren't you going to ask the librarian about the Greek grammar book that was supposed to come in this week?"

Castiel cast a hesitant look towards the lady sitting behind the computer at the desk. "N-n-no, I'm ffffine."

"You were real excited about it last time we were here," Dean pushed.

Castiel threw the book he was holding down on the shelf in frustration. The librarian gave them an annoyed look. "I s-s-s-said I w-was fine."

"Right, and this has nothing to do with the fact that you can't get a word out when you talk to a stranger?" Dean started raising his voice.

"N-n-n-no!"

"_This_ is why we should try to get you some help."

"D-d-d-don't need h-h-help. I'm n-n-not ssssick, Dean!"

"I didn't say you were sick, I said-"

"Excuse me," the librarian made her way over to them, probably wanting them to tone down the volume on their conversation. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes," Dean put on a winner-smile. "My friend here wanted to ask you about a book. Go on, Cas."

Rather than punch Dean in the face, Castiel turned to the woman, fully intent on showing him that he could do this. "Y-y-y-y-y-y-yes ... I ... I," he clenched his fists and coughed in an attempt that clear a blockage he knew was in his head. "... I ..." It wasn't going to happen, Castiel realized and Dean and the librarian's awful perfect patience only made it worse. He made a gesture with his hand to tell them 'never mind' and walked away.

Dean didn't follow him and he was glad for it. He went outside and sat on the library steps. The afternoon sun was nice and warm, and he loosened the tie around his neck a little. He stared at the palms of his hands. There were little half-moon dents in them from where he'd pressed his nails into the flesh. He hadn't used the phrase often, but had heard it enough from Dean and Bobby to know that this situation "sucked". And he really wanted to get that book.

Eventually, Dean joined him on the steps. Castiel didn't look at him.

"Sorry. That was a shitty thing to do, putting you on the spot like that."

"It w-w-w-was." Castiel still refused to look at him.

"It was my stupid way of trying to get you to go see a doctor," Dean continued apologetically. "I never meant to say that you were sick or anything. You aren't."

"I-I-I-I know," Castiel said and when Dean put a hand on his knee, he didn't shrug him off. "M-m-maybe ... you're rrrright."

"About the doctor?"

Castiel nodded.

"I'm not saying it'll fix everything," Dean told him. "Hell, I'm not even saying you need fixing, okay? But if there's something dead easy the guy could do for you to make it better, we'd be stupid not to try it. So do you want to give it a go?"

Castiel shrugged. "Yes." He held up one finger.

"Once," Dean agreed. "Yeah, we'll try it once and if it doesn't work out, you won't hear anything about it again from me. I promise you that." He squeezed Castiel's knee, then got up and offered a hand to pull him to his feet. "Oh, by the way," Dean said, handing Castiel a bag. "Got your book."

"I've got an old friend from Stanford," Sam said that evening, "who had just finished his first year of Med school when I was considering going to Law school. He should be a doctor by now. We haven't stayed in touch much, just exchanged a few emails every year or so, but I'm sure he'd be willing to recommend a speech expert or whatever."

"We need to get Cas an identity first," Bobby remarked. "Legal name, ID, health insurance. All that."

"Shouldn't be too hard," Dean said. "It's not like we haven't forged ID's before."

"Yeah, but this is a bit more extensive. Those forged ID's were never meant to last long. This one should keep for a lifetime. But I know a guy who owes me a favour. Got rid of a poltergeist for him once and I'm pretty sure he'll be able to help us. Have you thought of a last name, Cas?"

Castiel hadn't. The question surprised him a little.

"You could have anything you wanted," Dean helped. "Whatever you think sounds good. But I'm sure me and Sam," he checked with Sam, who nodded his consent without Dean needing to ask the question. "would be honoured if you became a Winchester."

"C-C-C-Castiel Win-Winchester," Castiel tried. "I-It's long."

"Won't be a problem when we find a doctor who can help you! Hell, you could be Castiel Winchester-Novak-Singer after that!"

Castiel glared at him. "Y-y-y-you're ma-making fun of m-m-me."

Dean smirked. " Just a bit. But Castiel Winchester sounds good, don't you think?"

Castiel didn't share Dean's faith in medicine, but he did like the sentiment behind taking Sam and Dean's name. In the end, he agreed. Bobby called his acquaintance that same evening. In a few weeks' time, Castiel would have the papers to prove his humanity.

That night, while Dean was sleeping soundlessly, Castiel was still awake. Carefully, he slid out of bed, ignoring Dean's disgruntled moan as he lost the warm weight beside him. He walked to the window, putting his fingers up against the cold glass. The yard underneath was silent and deserted. Castiel Winchester. The name had been reverberated through his head like an endless mantra from the first moment he'd heard it. Castiel Winchester. It was so human and it didn't feel like it fit him completely. He briefly looked back at the sleeping Dean. Dean was human in a way that seemed unattainable to Castiel. Sometimes in a way that made him treacherously jealous.

He stared back out of the window, suddenly overcome with the feeling that he was overwhelmingly small and out of place in this world.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong en he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Eventually Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 8

_Every emotion is different. Each has a particular physical impact that is as unique as the moment when you experience it. Happiness makes you want to run, allow your feet to pound the pavement, straining every muscle in your body, because you have no limits. Fear constricts your throat, paralyses all senses and turns breathing into a task that requires effort beyond your capabilities. Disappointment is the worst. It's a solid weight on your chest, always present, impossible to remove. And when you lie down at night, it slowly crushes you with its load._

Sam's college friend had been more than willing to help them out. He referred them to a specialist in speech problems who ran a clinic in Sioux Falls. Castiel and Dean undertook the journey together. Castiel was a nervous wreck the whole time. He fidgeted with his tie, with his shoe laces, with the radio and with the car windows. It became so bad that at one point, Dean forbade him to touch anything at all. For the remainder of the ride, Castiel sat with his hands folded in his lap, looking miserable.

When they turned into the parking lot of the clinic and Castiel laid eyes on doctors in white coats going in and out of the revolving doors, he flat-out refused to get out of the car.

"Th-Th-This … isn't ffffor me." He told Dean desperately. "P-p-p-p-p-please d-don't make me."

Dean put a hand on his knee. "Cas, you can do this. You got me out of hell, remember? We'll go in together and if you don't like it or that guy can't help you, we'll leave, we'll go home and I'll buy you some of those horrible vinegar chips you like. Deal?"

Castiel didn't reply, just cast another nervous look out of the window. They sat in the car for another thirty minutes in silence. Just when Dean's hand made its way back to the car keys to drive them away, Castiel suddenly stepped out and gave Dean a determined nod. With obvious reluctance, the both of them walked towards the clinic.

Doctor Tyler McGee occupied a large office on the third floor of the clinic. He wasn't wearing a white coat, which already comforted Castiel immensely. His office didn't contain any anatomical drawings or frightening instruments that Castiel had seen in other rooms. Another plus. He and Dean were invited to sit down in front of McGee's desk. The doctor himself took his place behind it and leant forward, his chin leaning on his fingertips. He was in his late fifties and seemed nice.

"So, Castiel," the doctor started, smoothing down his tie. "Am I pronouncing that correctly?"

Castiel nodded.

"I understand from what I've heard from your friend on the phone that you have some trouble with your speech, namely stuttering?"

"Y-y-yes."

"And for how long have you had this?"

"A-a-all … my l-life." The evening before, they'd decided that that was the most logical answer to give. Saying it had started suddenly after Castiel had lost his Grace and had become human, would most likely get them sent to a different kind of hospital.

"And have you sought professional help before?"

"N-no."

"He's afraid of doctors," Dean interjected. "That's why it's taken so long for him to get help."

"I understand," Doctor McGee replied kindly. "I'm glad you're here now. First, I'll need to ascertain where exactly you have the biggest problems." He opened one of the drawers of his desk and handed Castiel a sheet of paper. "I'd like you to read the following out loud. Please tell me if anything I ask you makes you uncomfortable. My goal here is to help you out, not to scare you away."

Castiel gave him a panicked look. He seldom tried reading things out loud, because when he had, it had been a disaster.

The doctor seemed to read his thoughts. "If you stutter or if it's hard, that'll just tell me more about you. No need to worry about it."

Castiel took a deep breath and started reading. He struggled for ten minutes and made it halfway through the page, until McGee stopped him.

"Alright, thank you, Castiel." He handed him a glass of water and turned to Dean while Castiel drank. "Is it usually like this?"

"A bit less," Dean admitted, making a move as if he wanted to touch his friend, but withdrawing his hand at the last moment.

"Is that because you're nervous right now, Castiel?"

Castiel nodded.

"Yes, that happens often. Okay, from what I've heard, you have a fairly severe stutter, mostly marked by the repetition of letters and syllables, occasionally interspersed with blocks. Do you agree?"

"Y-yes."

"There are a number of things that can be done in this situation," McGee explained. "There's extensive speech therapy, which I'd recommend and what is indicated in this case, but seeing your dislike of doctors, am I right in thinking that you aren't looking for that?"

Castiel shook his head firmly. Dean, Sam and Bobby had tried to advertise the idea of speech therapy to him, but that was a line he wasn't willing to cross and they'd accepted that eventually. Going to a doctor had been a huge step, but agreeing to receive help for a lengthy amount of time wasn't something he was comfortable with.

"Then there's medication, but seeing the side-effects, that wouldn't be my preferred course of action. I think your best option is an anti-stuttering device. Are either of you familiar with one of those?"

They weren't.

"Alright, follow me please."

They entered an exam room with several computers and machines on tables. In the middle was a chair in which Castiel was invited to sit down.

"I'm going to show you something called 'delayed auditory feedback'. It'll allow you to hear your own voice in your ears a fraction after you've spoken. It can improve fluency by 70%. Put these on." He handed Castiel a pair of headphones. Castiel put them on tentatively. "And try reading this."

After giving the doctor a sceptic and reluctant look, Castiel accepted the piece of paper. He coughed to delay the moment of having to read again, completely disbelieving that this was going to work. Then he began and from the corner of his eye, he saw Dean's mouth falling open. It worked. It actually worked. Mind you, it wasn't perfect. McGee's estimate of 70% seemed quite accurate. But instead of stuttering almost every word, Castiel could get full sentences out with only minor hesitation on perhaps one or two syllables. It was a massive improvement.

Doctor McGee took the headphones off Castiel. "Didn't expect that, did you?" He grinned. "The actual delayed auditory feedback device, a DAF for short, is much smaller and will fit in one of your ears. It'll be visible, but only barely. Normally, I only subscribe such devices in combination with speech therapy, but I'm willing to make an exception for you, seeing your circumstances. As you've seen, 100% fluency will be hard to attain, but if you practise – and you'll need to – you can get a long way. How does that sound to you?"

"G-g-great!" Castiel said, at the same time Dean went: "Perfect!"

"It's a pretty expensive device, though," McGee warned. "If I were you, I'd check whether it was covered by your health insurance. It usually is, at least in part."

"We'd be happy to pay for it," Dean said quickly as Castiel gave him a worried look. "I'd sell one of my kidneys to get you such a thing, Cas." Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Dean quickly said: "But I'm pretty sure I won't need to. How long will it take to get him one of those, doc?"

"Well, I'll take some measurements now, send the data to the company that fabricates the. They should have it ready for you by next week."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

It was quite possible the longest week of Castiel's life. On the morning they were due to drive back to Sioux Falls, he was practically dragging Dean to the car. They arrived much too early and had to spend an hour in the waiting room reading old magazines.

"Here it is," Doctor McGee told them, after they'd taken their seats in front of his desk again. He handed Castiel a small device. "Try putting it in your left ear."

Castiel followed his instructions.

"Well, is it working?" Dean asked impatiently.

"I don't know, Dean," Castiel answered carefully, then, elated: "I-I think it is!"

"Very good!" Doctor McGee said cheerfully. "But remember what I said, this isn't a miracle cure. You need to practise to get the most out of this thing. I'd recommend you spend at least thirty minutes a day reading out loud. You also need to train yourself in more stressful situations. Try talking to new people, ordering items in shops, answering the telephone. Any progress you make in situations in which you are nervous, will carry over to times when you are relaxed and will benefit you there as well. Also, the fact that it's working for you right now, doesn't mean it'll always do so in the future. Sometimes the effect wears off and people start stuttering as severely as they did before ever getting the device. That is something that you'll need to keep in the back of your mind. But it's a good sign that it's working for you now. It doesn't for everyone."

"I will practise," Castiel promised gravely. McGee's ominous words had somewhat reduced his enthusiasm. Dean was still grinning like an idiot beside him, having completely disregarded the possible negative developments.

"Then I wish you the best of luck," McGee got up to shake his hand. "You've got my number. If you ever need anything, any help at all, I'll do my utmost to provide it, okay?"

They thanked him as many times and in as many different words as they could think of. When they were back in the sunny parking lot, Dean asked: "What's it like?"

"It's a strange experience," Castiel replied. He pointed at his ear. "I can hear myself in here and it-it aids me, somehow. The transitions are easier. It's ... it's wonderful."

They got into the Impala and when Dean started the engine, the radio came on. Dean quickly shut it off. Castiel looked at him questioningly.

"You're going to talk this whole journey," Dean ordered. "I want to hear everything. What your favourite colour is, what cars you like, what you want for breakfast tomorrow. I don't care. I just want to hear you."

"You'll get tired of me," Castiel said jokingly.

"Never."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Dean had received the doctor's advice for Castiel to practise as gospel. The day after they'd arrived home, he bought the entire series of Harry Potter books and showed them proudly to Castiel.

"Dean, these are chil-children's books," Castiel remarked, studying the cover of the first book.

"_These_ are a literary masterpiece. Apparently. I've always wanted to read them, but they're more suited for little nerds like Sam and …" He stopped abruptly.

"And me?" Castiel finished coolly.

Dean's ears became slightly red. "Term of endearment, Cas. Come on, I always hated reading in school, because I was six when I first went there; my dad was too busy hunting to enrol me earlier. All the other kids could read or at least knew the alphabet and I seemed like an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean said dryly. "Anyway, though I hated reading myself – still don't like it much, to be honest -, I always loved being read to. But people stop reading to you when you're a certain age. I don't know why, it's never made much sense to me. I think there'd be a lot less violence in the world if people read more to each other. Will you read these to me? Please? I promise you won't have to do the voices."

Castiel wasn't sure what Dean meant with 'doing the voices', but he agreed to read the series to Dean anyway. Every night, before it got too dark, they went to the roof to practise. Castiel found it awkward at first. He stumbled over the words and difficult names a lot, but Dean didn't seem to mind and slowly, he grew more confident and actually enjoyed himself.

Bobby and Sam joined in the initiative to get Castiel to talk as much as possible. Sam mostly asked him about translations they were working on and started giving Castiel works of classic literature to read, which they then discussed later.

Bobby pushed a little harder. He was the one who sent Castiel out to do the shopping by himself. It took three hours. During his stuttering and his silence, Castiel had become very isolated and that now manifested itself in a kind of social phobia. He found it hard to approach people and his voice often blocked when he started to say something. All of them knew it was mostly a psychological problem. It didn't stop Bobby from issuing challenges and orders. Castiel was also to welcome any new customers into the salvage yard and had to ask them what was wrong with their cars, before relaying the information to Bobby or Dean.

They once sat outside a gas station for thirty minutes while Castiel worked up the courage to go inside and get them a few sandwiches. Another time, he'd come home close to tears and had told Dean that his voice had blocked again at the library and he'd left without the books he'd really wanted to read. Dean had put him in the car and, despite Castiel's protestations and pleas to turn back, deposited Castiel in front of the library once more to go get his books. Fifteen minutes later, Castiel came out, carrying his spoils, smiling from ear to ear.

There were stumbles and there were victories. Sometimes there were massive fights. For example, on one occasion, Castiel had been told to call for a pizza. He didn't want to. It had turned into a shouting match that had lasted almost an hour, in which Castiel was able to vent all his frustration about having to practise so much in the first place. In the end, the telephone call went fine. Castiel did, however, order all pizza with extra anchovies, which he knew Dean hated. Dean had picked them all off and had unceremoniously dumped them on Castiel's plate, who ate them with pleasure.

After that little episode, Bobby put Castiel in charge of the phone for customers of the salvage yard. Castiel took the job with great reluctance. Answering the phone was still one of the hardest things and in the first few weeks, quite a few customers found themselves hung up upon. Castiel never felt the need to mention that to Bobby.

Overall, he was happy. He was happier than he'd ever been as a human, perhaps happier than he'd ever been as an angel. He thrived on Dean's approval and their ability to have proper conversations now. He enjoyed developing a sense of humour based on dry, sarcastic remarks that occasionally made even Bobby choke on his drink. He loved how Dean's pupils widened as he growled his name close to his ear in the dead of night.

Then, suddenly, everything changed. The device was in, it was working properly, he'd checked, but everything else wasn't. He tested it every morning when he began wearing it by saying his new human name, but when he tried this time, he got stuck on the first syllable. It was unusual, but seeing as his stutter had never been really gone, it hadn't been immensely worrying at first. He tried again. "C-C-C-C-C-C..."

Eyes closed. Deep breath. "C-C-C-C-Cas-Cas-Cas-Cas ..."

It wasn't working. It wasn't working. Another deep breath. Try again. Nothing. He was choking. No air was passing his lips and the panic he felt was close to the panic he'd experienced the first time he'd woken up as a human in a cheap motel room. He was alone this time, with no-one to calm him down, and it took ten minutes before he was able to compose himself.

He resisted the urge to kick something, hit something, scream. Instead, he pushed it all down. Fixed his shoelaces. Tied his tie. He could do this. He was human. He had a name. Having conquered the initial panic, he quickly decided that the others couldn't know. Especially not Dean. Dean, who had been so proud when the DAF had worked and who'd be heartbroken now that it didn't. Dean had fixed him and Castiel considered it his own fault that he'd fallen apart again.

They couldn't know. He'd hide it, just for today. And if the device wouldn't start working for him again, Castiel saw only one other option: he'd have to leave before Dean ever found out.

TBC 

**A/N**: The next chapter will probably be the last. Thanks for your great comments so far!


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters.

**Summary**: After the events of 6x20, Castiel realizes that he was wrong and he comes up with a suicidal plan to fix things by defeating Raphael on his own. When it leaves him human and with a severe stutter, it's up to Dean to forgive him and teach him how to live and to be happy.

**A/N**: Destiel.

**Mere Words**

Chapter 9

_Mere words. The power they have. Everything, from starting wars to ending them, hinges on the effects of language. As do the simplest of things. Ordering coffee, saying hello, sharing your thoughts. The balance of the presence and absence of silence make the world go round. _

Castiel had hoped that somehow, by miracle, his delayed auditory feedback device would start working again. He tried several times during the day, when he was on his own, but to no avail. However, he was determined to hide it from his friends and especially from Dean. Speaking little at breakfast, he did his best to give the impression that he hadn't slept well and didn't want to be disturbed. When he was left alone to answer the phone in Bobby's office, he slammed the horn down at every call without even trying. That evening, Dean asked him to read to him on the roof, but Castiel faked a headache and went to bed early. The panic was rising with every second he was awake and when he removed the device from his ear, he had to desist himself from crushing it under his shoe.

_When he closed his eyes and woke up in the alley, his knees buckled and he sagged against one of the walls. Crowley was standing over him and Castiel curled up in a ball. _

"_It didn't work out, did it?" Crowley's voice was oddly soft. "I'm sorry." It almost sounded sincere. "You tried, Castiel. You tried valiantly."_

_Castiel pressed his forehead to his knees and a sob unwillingly escaped his lips. _

"_Perhaps this isn't who you're meant to be. I think you know what I mean." Crowley came to sit on the ground with him, his back leaning against the wall, his legs casually stretched out in front of him. "You could be an angel again. Dean would understand that. But he wouldn't understand _this_. He wouldn't understand how you suddenly lost it again. Do you want to disappoint him, Cas?"_

_Crowley placed his hand on Castiel's shoulder and Castiel didn't shrug him off._

"_Haven't you sacrificed enough?"_

_Castiel nodded. He could barely see anything through his teary eyes. His nose was running and he wiped it off with the sleeve of his trench coat. He felt utterly defeated. _

"_Come to the warehouse where it all ended. As quickly as you can. Then call for me. I'll help you."_

Crowley disappeared and Castiel woke up. Dean's arm was around his waist, heavy with sleep. Castiel moved him slowly. He carefully stepped over Dean, dressed in silence and opened the door. Then he walked back to Dean's sleeping form. He reached out and ran his hand gently through Dean's hair, placed a soft kiss upon his forehead. It was his goodbye.

Castiel took a bus. Then another. Then another. He travelled non-stop. He ate nothing, didn't talk and kept his mind blank. He sat in the bus for eighteen hours, before walking another three to the warehouse. He never needed to ask the way. It was as if there was a tiny bit of his Grace left at the place where Raphael had taken it from him, and now, it was calling him home.

He arrived at his destination at three o'clock in the morning. The last time he strode into the place, he'd been an angel. Now, he was a broken human, wearing running shoes, because he liked them and a blue tie, because it comforted him. Raphael's wings had faded away completely. Castiel tried to find them on the floor, but there was nothing left except a thick layer of dust. He attempted to find his own wings. Dean had never said whether they'd been there too and Castiel had never asked.

He delayed an hour before calling Crowley. The demon made him wait only seconds.

"Castiel."

"C-C-C-Crowley." He wasn't scared.

They were standing far apart and Crowley started walking in his direction. The situation reminded Castiel eerily of the time Raphael had done the same. Just like back then, he made himself stand his ground.

"You want your Grace back, don't you?"

"Y-y-yes."

"And your voice?"

"Yes."

"I have a few conditions, of course," Crowley said silkily, jamming his hands nonchalantly in the pockets of his coat. "You'll be _mine_, Castiel. Completely. You will never see those Winchesters again. You'll help me find and open Purgatory and you'll give me the souls. All of them. Do we have a deal?"

Castiel hesitated. Then he said softly: "Y-yes."

"Good." Crowley stopped in front of him. "Kneel, Castiel. I'll restore you."

But Castiel didn't kneel. He looked up and met Crowley's eyes defiantly.

"I _said_ kneel."

Castiel took a step backwards, away from Crowley. Crowley tried to follow, reaching for Castiel, but he found himself contained by an invisible barrier. "I-I think it's-it's … you w-who should be knee-kneeling, d-d-demon."

Crowley kicked in the dust that had gathered in the warehouse and revealed a carefully drawn devil's trap. He laughed humourlessly. "Oh, Cassie-boy, you will pay for this. Who's going to get your voice back now?"

Castiel put his hand in his pocket and fished out his DAF device. He placed it in his ear. "I think I've got it, thank you."

An expression of confusion made its way across Crowley's face, but it quickly disappeared to form a sneer. "And your Grace?"

"I have accepted the loss long ago."

"Well, good for you," Crowley spat out. "You've become completely human, have you? Deceit isn't above you anymore, apparently."

"When humans wants something really, really bad," Castiel said carefully, "they lie."

"You got that right, Cas!"

Crowley swivelled around to see Dean Winchester in the door opening of the warehouse. "Wouldn't count myself too lucky, Winchester. _I_ wasn't the only one betrayed tonight."

"Oh, I think you were," Dean replied cheerfully, as he strode forward to stand beside Castiel, careful to avoid the devil's trap. "You see, this connection you made between Cas' mind and your own? It works both ways. Cas was able to show you what he wanted you to see. He never started stuttering again. He didn't leave me. It was convincing though, wouldn't you agree?"

Crowley did a step forward, but was held back by the invisible barrier. Turning away from Dean, he appealed directly to the former angel. "Castiel, it's not too late. My offer still stands."

Castiel ignored him. He looked at Dean. "Can I?"

"The floor is yours."

Castiel took a sheet of paper from the pocket of his coat. He was confident he knew the words by heart as well, but he didn't want to take the chance of accidentally misspeaking.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,

Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion

Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,

Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."

The Latin flowed from his lips with ease. He tasted all the words, felt their power. Crowley felt it too. He started threatening, bargaining, raging and pleading, but Castiel read on.

"Ergo draco maledicte

Et omnis legio diabolica

Adiuramus te.

Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,

Eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare."

Crowley's words had no impact on him. Language was Castiel's, after all. He'd lost it, he'd fought to regain it and now it was his again.

"Vade, Satana, inventor et magister

Omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis.

Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei,

Contremisce et effuge, invocato a

Nobis sancto et terribili nomine,

Quem inferi tremunt."

Crowley began to scream and for a moment, Castiel hated himself for being cruel. But from the corner of his eye, he saw Dean and remembered that this wasn't cruelty. This was justice.

"Ab insidiis diabolic, libera nos, Domine.

Ut Ecclesiam Tuam secura Tibi facias libertate servire,

Te rogamus, audi nos.

Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris,

Te rogamus, audi nos."

Latin was the language of the courts. Castiel had been sentenced, found guilty and had been given his punishment. He'd taken it and atoned. He had been forgiven. Crowley was about to receive his own.

"Terribilis Deus de sanctuario Suo.

Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem

Et fortitudinem plebi Suae.

Benedictus Deus. Gloria Patri."

Castiel spoke the last words and Crowley crumpled. Gone, defeated. There was nothing left of him. The King of Hell had become one with his vessel long ago and it had finally disintegrated under the conflicting powers.

"Bobby and Sam are burning the bones?" Castiel asked Dean. They wanted to be absolutely sure there'd be nothing left of the King of Hell and that none of his followers had any chance of resurrecting him.

"They're doing it as we speak," Dean replied. "You played it well, Cas."

Castiel smiled shyly.

"Were you ever tempted? To take his offer, I mean."

"No." It was the truth.

Dean smiled back. "Glad to hear it. How about we go home now?"

"I-I'd like that."

Together, they walked out of the warehouse. Castiel never looked back.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Castiel never achieved complete fluency. His voice would always contain the hint of a stutter and he'd stumble once in every ten words or so. That was alright. When he was with Dean, his stuttering was barely noticeable, but whenever he became nervous, excited or scared, it worsened. Dean thought it was endearing. Castiel chose to see it as a reminder of his own humanity.

They started travelling again, hunting when they had the opportunity, though it wasn't their sole purpose. Dean wanted to show Castiel everything the world had to offer. They finally saw the Grand Canyon. After six months, Sam left them to pursue his old dreams of becoming a lawyer and Dean was happy for him. He and Castiel visited him regularly and on his quiet weekends, Sam travelled with them. They also tried to stay at Bobby's a few nights every month or so, the old hunter always welcoming them gruffly into his home and putting them to work immediately. Castiel noticed how his old room at Bobby's house remained untouched and free from rubbish in the periods he wasn't there.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

After Crowley's demise, Castiel had begun to sleep soundlessly. It was Dean, this time, who dreamed.

_Dean found himself in front of a small cabin he'd only seen once before. He'd stayed there during the duration of a single night. A soft knock on the wood and the door opened slowly. _

"_You're not my Dean."_

"_You're not my Castiel," Dean replied with a smile. "But you are the one I want to talk to."_

_Castiel looked vaguely bemused, but then the door swung open wide and he invited Dean in with a hand gesture. "I take it you're from the past?"_

"_2012."_

"_It's 2014 here."_

"_I know," Dean replied. Castiel hadn't invited him to sit down, but Dean did so anyway._

"_How did you get here?" Castiel demanded. "This camp is sealed from the outside world. No strangers are allowed, because it's impossible to tell whether they are carrying the croatoan virus. Does anyone else know you're here? Are you going to get us out of this god-awful mess?"_

_It was odd to hear this version of Castiel swear. Everything about the man differed from the person Dean knew in his own time, except for his physical features and the sound of his voice. "You're dreaming," he replied to Castiel's very first question. "I'm sorry, I'm not here to fix this."_

_Castiel snorted incredulously. "Then what's the point of you being here? How did you even do this? Only angels can invade dreams and you, Dean Winchester, are still just a man."_

"_I prayed for it."_

_Castiel laughed cynically. He grabbed a bottle of liquor from a nearby table and took a gulp, offering it to Dean, who refused. "There is no God. Not anymore."_

"_Perhaps not in your time. But I didn't come here for theological discussions."_

"_Good. I have no interest in having them."_

"_I came here," Dean continued as if Castiel hadn't spoken. "to tell you that I've done it. I've changed your future. This," he gestured around himself to indicate the whole situation, "this will never happen."_

_Castiel's eyes widened for a moment in genuine surprise. Then his mask slotted back into place. "Did you kill me?"_

"_No."_

"_Then nothing's changed."_

"_You're happy. Back in my time. You're happy there."_

_Castiel laughed cruelly. It was nothing like the laugh of his Castiel, Dean thought. "Don't play games with me, Dean. You don't know me. You don't know what I've become."_

"_You enjoy classical music, you like to run and you insist on wearing a tie wherever you go, even when it's summer."_

_Castiel slowly reached up to his neck where a tie was missing. "_I_ like to run," he said quietly, almost involuntarily. _

"_You love anchovies, for reasons I can't imagine," Dean continued, getting up and approaching Castiel, who was still standing. "You're capable of driving the Impala, but you enjoy being a passenger more. The sound of the engine still makes you fall asleep. When you get enthusiastic about a Latin text or a book you've read, you stutter when you tell me about. I always listen and nod along, even if I don't have a clue what you're talking about. You're not that great with a gun, but you don't need to be, because you're so much more than just a hammer or a hunter. You don't like coffee, but you swear by tea. You love sitting on the roof with me at Bobby's house. You talk to Sam on the phone and the two of you discuss nerdy things I'll never understand. Sometimes, when you're tired, you stop speaking and I get all worried. And then you say my name the way only you can, as if it's a prayer or a spell, and I know everything is fine."_

_Castiel, who had kept his eyes on the floor while Dean had been talking, suddenly turned around and started moving in the direction of the door. "I – I can't believe this. You can't come in here telling me things like this. You can't start giving me hope. I won't believe it, Dean. I won't. I _can't_."_

_Dean grabbed his arm and prevented him from leaving. Castiel reluctantly faced him and Dean looked into an older version of the blue eyes he'd come to know so well. "You don't have to believe it," He told Castiel gently. "But it's the truth. And it will be the truth, even in 2014. You're happy, Cas. I'm going to make sure you stay that way."_

_He let go of Castiel's arm, allowing him to walk away to the other side of the room, where he paused at the window, staring out at the camp. He didn't turn back and didn't speak. He didn't thank Dean and he didn't look at him again. It wasn't necessary. Dean had kept his promise to this Castiel of the future. It wasn't the future anymore._

The End__

A/N: That was it! I'd love to know what you thought of the conclusion and this piece in general. It was a joy to write, so thank you reading and commenting.


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